The
bent lamp contemplates fire, its light
is louder than emergency.
What in the
world, in this house,
can
make him his father. Are coffee stains
on
a V-neck tee-shirt equated with perseverance?
Is
the sharp fetor of Skoal lingering in the toolshed
instilling in him a work ethic, or
instructing him
how to use slip
knots to secure plywood
to the roof of a
foreign car?
There
were days when he would swear
avocados and black olives would
strengthen skin,
deepen the simian
creases
in
his palms. There is a generational pride
in
rough hands, even for the son
who
dreads the shovel and the word
chassis scares him to
death: Son,
what the hell are you
doing in there? Writing
a
poem, cursing
that
red wheel barrow,
shit
depends on it. Right now
so
much more depends
on
how the son
answers
the father,
even as an electric heat
fills
the room.
ha. nice hit on the red wheelbarrow...much the same in my relationship to my dad...he is very hands on building working on cars and it just did not click with me....reading/writing..still there is much to learn....
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