dad

it is so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk

on some dry scorching day
fry an egg on a sidewalk and remember


                    sitting at the table being fed the daily feast
                    of flared nostrils and obey and
                    that his, his was the way.


                   but later,  listening to his music, his plunging 
                   the rod through the barrel
                   with clean cotton pieces
                   schwut scweescht schwut tk tk tk  pause.  tk


                  remember
                  the cologne of gun oil and crisp
                  fresh cold broken twigs fresh clean ruin
                  clinging to stubble and red wool.  tender skin and

                  (he really did have the softest, silkiest)
 
                  tender skin and stories.  this was
                  the scent this was the sound of him. 


                 his hands scarred and strong.  foreign.
                 they moved in old ways  and the
                 things he knew.       he spoke exotic.
                 forests    blinds   iron sights.   bullets and buckshot 
                 and why. 

                 decoys  and calls and antlers with points 
                 and once.   and once when he was young
                 there was that hole shot through the floor
                 at his feet.  to the dining room table below.  


                 now he wasn't table he.
                 pulling the luster of early morning 
                 to himself    focused on now and then.  
                 this morning he spent in his
                 now and then.
                 
                 a silver afternoon by the fire 
                 breathing crackle and spark and watching him. 
                 expanded   uncompromised    young and   
                 in those moments     the him of him.  seeing
                 the now and then. 


               
on some dry scorching day
fry an egg on a sidewalk and remember


words and meaning are not the same.