Papa Was A Rolling Rock Poem by John W. McEwers

If I can't remember learning to bike,
or my first swim lesson,
or the first day of Kindergarten,
you might not be surprised.

Memory is a funny thing.
It sticks around when it wants to
but often has other plans.

I couldn't describe many Childhood Christmases
or the time we went to Newfoundland.
My earliest memory, actually
is the smell of beer
when you crashed your car
into the garage door,
yelled all night,
and beat mom.