My Father

was a cowboy.
My father was a sugar man.
My father was a teamster.
 
My father was a Siberian 
tiger; a corsair; a lamb, 
a yellow dog, a horse's ass.
 
My father had a triple bi-pass.
My father was a rat 
but he bought me my first hat. 
 
My father believed in decency 
and fair play. My father drove 
the getaway. My father was a blue jay.
 
My father drove the boys away.
My father drove a Thunderbird, 
a Skylark, a Firebird, an old pickup truck 
 
with a rusty tool box, a Skybird, 
a Sunray. My father drove hard bargains 
ever day; he was a force. My father 
 
was mercurial. He was passive, 
a little moody: rock... paper... scissors. 
He loved me. He loved me not.
 
He stomps and hurls lightning bolts. 
Has slipped away. Passed away. 
My father was passé. My father 
 
was a Texas Ranger. Taught me 
to pray. Because of him, I hoard things 
in an old shoe box. Because of him, I use 
 
botox. Because of him, I look to clocks. 
Because of my father, I know how 
to oil the gate; don’t own a map. 
 
Because of my father, I have no use for 
similes. Because of my father, I hunger 
for my own catalog of metaphors.
 


(for Doris Schnabel)