A waist-high ceramic pig
wearing overalls
appears on our front lawn;
we can afford whimsy now.
A basketball hoop in the driveway
a pair of young mallard ducks
make a home of our creek.
We name them Bob and Anna.
They come waddling when we call
because Lewis can tame anything.
He builds an arched wooden bridge
to the wild back acres of our yard
buys Christopher a quad
to zoom past
his friends on bicycles.
Cara’s dreams—a Swatch watch and J.Crew wardrobe
come true,
and for me
a breathtaking brand-new
portable electric Brother typewriter
to write without
spraining fingers
on Mom’s clunky manual one.
Lewis loves rhyming wordplay
corny puns, teasing quips
decidedly dad humor.
Unlike Dad, who
at a school performance
leaned over during a kid’s
solo rendition of
“Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?”
and whispered,
“Will somebody give this kid
the fucking time already?”
Lewis works endlessly
building his business
is ambitious in ways
our father is not.
In one week,
still grimy from work,
he builds a basement fireplace
converting an unfinished square hole
brick
by solid brick
transforming
useless cinder block space
into a family room.