we lived in, held down
a job he didn’t like,
and went to college
thirteen years, nights,
to earn a better one.
Seen from a distance
with book or T-square
or trowel in hand he seemed
to overflow with know-how.
My mother pulled me
in a wagon around
and around the block
or drove me into the country
for cherries or sweet corn
weekend after weekend
after weekend
so dad could study or shellac
in peace. When he was home,
the watchwords were
“be quiet” and “don’t.”
There was no password
save as I grew older
the boxed game mother and I
whisperingly played
at the kitchen table.
One day, attempting to undo
a summer’s indifference,
he grabbed my ankles
where I lay
half-naked on the floor
and, whooping, dragged me
as a joke. Clumsy,
unthinking affection
that left my back a blister,
mother angry, and himself
ashamed, a wrong
he tried to right
with balsa gliders
and a kite that almost flew.
Today, my father
works oftenest
in his chair
before the television
(from which nothing
and no one can drag him)
reading books on how to
oil-paint, something
he will never do—
books that will join others
on his shelf: how to
whittle, how to play
the harmonica, how to
what have you.
This poem is about
how to make amends.
Step one is always to remember
before saying goodbye
to say hello.