FOR MY FATHER
My father said everything
when he whistled his way home
in the dust of a square evening,
that held the trail of a shooting star
in the violet sky.
A Peter Pan in work boots,
his cap set cocked-back,
his one-seeing eye tangoing
to the tune of “It’s Only Make Believe, I Love You”
above the crunch of gravel underfoot.
He should have moved to the Crazy Mountains
worn a bowler
learned to play the viola
Instead, he drew the bow of a welder
built a world between cinderblock walls
a Marilyn Monroe calendar
above the utility sink.
“Lolly”, he said, “grab that big wrench over there
and hand it to me. “ and I did,
feeling as important
as anything I’d ever be.
© Laurie James 2014
Born in a Montana blizzard to a one-eyed man and a one-thumbed woman, Laurie now writes poetry in Salida, Colorado where she has lived since 1971. Two years ago she retired from the daily grind at the local newspaper and now, just looks out the window at a struggling, lone Jack Pine and the wide open sky. She has performed poetry with the Salida based poetry troupe, "River City Nomads" for 10 years. A chapbook is in the works, hopefully to be in print in 2014.