A Father

My father’s stories

are the color

of lettuce cores.

His irony is

so gentle it’s

not there. A

farmer asked five

dollars to pose

in his gat

and his cigar.

Dad only had

a twenty so

the old farmer

brought out all

the family all

ten of them

plus the animals.

My father’s travels

took place on

vague pointillistic maps.

His medals were all

just for showing

up on time,

even the Purple

Heart. These are

all parables of

he knows not

what. A man

effaces himself, for

one. He met

the only Italian

commander to have

surrendered his men

to the Abyssinians.

At the bombed

out test site,

he was just

there to prod

the crash dummy

with his foot.