My father, not so much a disciplinarian
as he was a chiropractor’s moat.
VA clothing allowance in one hand,
Velcro neck brace in the other,
the umbrage a heating pad made
the day his sciatica decided
it was a periwinkle blue.
The union steward, more handsome
in pamphlet than person,
a Knights of Columbus flyer
lodged in the mailbox pulpit,
faux-sworded men smiling
on our address,
a crown of golf tees
circling the water softener,
the gutters tattered in repose.
Their leaves a cuneiform gentler
than spray-painted chrome.
My letter-carrier father,
treasurer for the Sons and Daughters of Italy,
his filing cabinet the Dante of workman’s comp.
Foreclosure, not so far off.about the author