Chris Farley

My daughter’s hair is now long enough 

For her to wake up with bedhead.

She’ll stand in her crib, gripping

And chewing on the side, hungry,

It seems, from a night of partying.

Her wild hair reminds me of Chris Farley’s,

Whose floppy mane was always in a state of flux,

Whether he was collapsing through a coffee table

Or pulverizing a dinner roll for being naughty.

I miss that man, just as most of us do,

All 300-pratfalling-pounds of him

Have left its mark.

But as I write this in the bathroom,

The only private place in this house,

With my laptop resting on bare thighs,

My daughter kamikazes through the door,

Bent wings jutting from the sides of her head,

As if Chris Farley himself egged her on, 

Tousled her hair, and cartwheeled away

Before anybody could catch him.

Best of the Net nominee, Rich Glinnen, enjoys bowling, and eating his daughter’s cheeks at his home in Bayside, NY. His work can be read in various print and online journals, as well as on his Tumblr and Instagram pages. His wife calls him Ho-ho.

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