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My father is writing a letter to the editor.
Erudite and logical as Spock, he rests his case.
Maybe this letter will be sent and published
or maybe it will remain in his head, an ode called
Thoughts While Mowing the Back Forty.
No issue is beneath his scrutiny, and I am
just as random and ruthless in my own head.
We do not suffer fools, my father and I.
I like this inherited trait much better than
the gift of hairy legs and a substantial backside.