Poem With Memories. To My Father

your own two feet: i remember
how you stood on them
through the ill winds of business.

i recall you explained to me
one night, in your room,
about the poor times we were in.
i saw the coins on your dresser,
wished they were mine, and couldn’t believe
we weren’t rich.
i was angry at what your partners had done to you.

your own two legs: i remember
you running to catch a ball
in our driveway,
before your accident.

i recall how, as Faithful Navigator,
you got dressed for the K of C ball.
i thought a cummerbund was absurd
but i never see one without being proud
of how handsome you were
that night.

i always believed Pall Malls were the best
because you smoked them,
that “Treasure Island” was magic
when you read it,
that you really could feel me tickling
your wooden foot,
that you were a hero in the war
(which took you all over the world)
and a famous entrepreneur (in Detroit).

i remember the monstrous, cold machines
looming over me like aliens in your warehouse;
the smell of oil, the cement floor.

i look into your younger face, and see
the source of my warm memories
before the cold machines and the cold world
began to erode hope from your face.
your sons carried on your struggles, but i,
i cherish your smiles
and dream your dreams.