Let’s Just Go Down To City Hall

 

My mother never said, Don’t Usher The Good Times In.  She never took the pot from my hand and said,  Don’t Beat On It With A Stick.  Don’t Make Noise.  She never threw up the window shade and said, Don’t Look Out.  Or, I Remember Chilly Scenes of Winter.

I remember my father sang a song about a railroad that stretched all the way from our living room to Kansas.

“What else,” I said.

“Oh,” he said.  “Teach me to dance in the kitchen.”

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