Poem: Quiet Son

My father rang, he said “what are you doing, Sunday?” I said “Why?” “Because we’re flying into the airport your mother and I” “I’ll call you a cab?” I offered. “We’d prefer it if you picked us up”, he replied, unsure of my joke. “How many bags?” I then asked. “3: golfclubs, briefcase and clothes…” “Better bring the car then”, I next said, “sounds like a…