He doesn’t flinch
When the pan’s hot edge
Sears his skin,
Branding him
With a baker’s tattoo
Mom always said
He wasn’t your typical drunk
When the pan’s hot edge
Sears his skin,
Branding him
With a baker’s tattoo
Mom always said
He wasn’t your typical drunk
Tireless and ever smiling
He never missed
A day of work
What he did miss:
Tiny cleats streaking black and white
Across soccer field green
A seven year old
Snowflake singing
On stage, off-key
And other things
Like scraped knees,
Bee stings,
Bedtime stories -
A full array
Of childhood clichés
He stands in his kitchen,
Facing the rain streaked window,
And pile of dirty dishes
With ready hands
The golden smell
Of sourdough
Filling the space between us
He doesn’t flinch
But I’ve seen
Fresh blisters and
Evidence of old burns
My dad
Whose thick-skinned palms
Don’t fool me -
He feels it all.
This poem knocked me out when I first read it, and it knocks me out still, Nina.
ReplyDeleteI remember being amazed when you first posted this to Facebook. I've enjoyed it all over again,Nina. Thanks! Pat
ReplyDelete