In my father’s retirement
he’s learning to play
the banjo. Two hours each day:
“runs” and “vamping”
in the back of the house.
He goes to camps
where they teach him
to play by ear:
Something has to click.
When I took piano as a kid,
he never wanted to listen, attended
recitals because mom forced him.
Relieved when I finally quit:
Such a sissy instrument.
Now there’s something innocent
in the way he talks, a gentleness
I rarely find in men:
From your last visit to this one
am I getting better?
I’m happy to lie, to say yes.
I’m not a father.
I don’t have to be cruel.