I might buy you a drill

19 Jun

For Father’s Day, I was thinking, I might give the bird book

to the pre-school, down the street, and tell them, “not every tweet

is the same.” Or maybe I’ll whistle through my teeth, and send

in the wind, your name.

I might give a quarter to the homeless guy, say good morning

(you would), read the news and think, what a shame.

Out back, I might check on that seedling you pointed out

– now a tree – to me, higher than our heads as you promised

it would someday be.

I might look in the mirror at the schnoz, so like yours, long and broad

like a beak, what a nose, smelling all the best and worst. Like a dog.

Speaking of dogs,

I might walk, watch their paws against the dirt trail ahead of me.

Pay attention. I might miss what you might have seen.

All the dads, on their day, with their JC Penney ties, and drawings

of you, me, mom and us all.

In their voices, in their hands, their skin and their faces, there is you

with us still, laughing with abandon and ease.

You used to slap your knee, your head back, even if the joke was bad.

I miss you, but I am not sad.

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