My Own Private Ulysses: I Want To Write About My Old Dad, Bo
- Robert Roman
- 6 days ago
- 1 min read

I Want To Write About My Old Dad, Bo
But I just can’t. I’m stuck with old James Joyce.
Dad had plus ninety years. They were brisk ones.
He heard midnight’s chimes, felt cold morning suns.
As these thoughts thrive, they wilt my weak, weak voice.
We read together: Mick’s main man, Jackson Lamb,
We loved The Good Lord Bird by James McBride,
And cried with laughs at Beatty’s greatest jam
The Sellout. Then there’s Flashman, what a ride.
Go look at the film based on Joyce’s book,
See Bo and Milo share the same browed eyes,
Which might make you think that each was a schnook.
But no, to life’s joke, both rascals were wise.
So, yeah, I see Bo in Leopold Bloom.
And in my mirror? His old son, I presume.
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