Father

I like to remember my father from those days,
the days of plastic pools in the driveway
and quiet, hopeful lemonade stands.
he knew everything about everything,
his words like suds as I was the sponge.
Standing with his nail bags sagging from his waist,
posture tall,
Body language of a hero.
Today, those words reverberate like the patchy prophecies of ancestors.
He told me that paper towels cost five cents each
and that robert plant was the lead singer of led zeppelin.
I listened to him belt out lyrics harmonically as he worked
allowing me to tighten screws, teaching me the difference between
washers and nuts.
he taught me the dangers of stagnancy
teaching me to dump buckets filled with rainwater
dripping from the eaves of my treehouse
childhood imaginatorium
killing the mosquitos
that he taught me to despise.
He labored to help his family grow,
despite his slowly stiffening spine
through the times that seemed stale.
covered in dust, his blue eyes still glisten inside tired sockets
the melancholy glaze of middle age.
he still speaks of his memories
fingers on aged guitar strings still serenade,
he has daredevil scars and hands of a carpenter.
holding onto his dreams, he foretells of
Family businesses and fountains in the backyard.
and when he walks the beach, he quests for gems to save for
the happier days.