My father lives in sawdust and solder,
he lives in the creaking
of my mother’s wooden floors.
My father lives
in lake tossed rowboats
and taut moorings,
in homemade lead sinkers
and the sharp-edged Tooth of the Pike.
My father lives
in the unforgiving canvas of a rain-soaked tent.
I sit in the park feeding pigeons,
thinking back on stories
of my father’s escapades,
while the pigeons of his city
nest at their ease under bridges,
currently undisturbed
by young men shimmying across trestles,
whose tender voices promise
only- God-knows-what.
