My father lived so far from the page
      the only mail he got was marked Occupant.
            The century had cored him with its war, and he paid
                  bills in person, believed in flesh and the family plan.

In that house of bookish females, his glasses slid on
      for fishing lures and carburetor work,
            the obits, my report cards, the scores.
                  He was otherwise undiluted by the written word.

At a card table, his tales could entrance a ring of guys
      till each Timex paused against each pulse,
            and they’d stare like schoolboys even as he wiped
                  from the center the green bills anted up.

Come home. I’m lonely, he wrote in undulating script. I’d left
      to scale each distant library’s marble steps like Everest
            till I was deaf to the wordlessness
                  he was mired in, which drink made permanent.

He took his smoke unfiltered, milk unskimmed.
      He liked his steaks marbled, fatback on mustard greens,
            onions eaten like apples, split turnips dipped
                  into rock salt, hot-pepper vinegar on black beans.