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