My father died at fifty-one.
Chasing skirts from north to south
his too-short life seemed lots of fun.

Handsome as Lucifer, bright as the sun
big words with ease spilled from his mouth.
My father died at fifty-one.

With accolades and honors they'd strewn
his path. Despite divorces and rumors (uncouth!)
his too-short life seemed lots of fun.

One night I found him sitting alone
in darkness, weeping. “They've found me out!”
My father died at fifty-one.

Two dames had thought they were his one
true love (there were more than two, in truth).
His too-short life seemed lots of fun.

Each woman delivered her ultimatum.
A few years later widowing the one made spouse
my father died at fifty-one.
His too-short life seemed lots of fun.