Sunday Afternoon
Worn blue jeans slide off
Daddy’s waist, resting on his hips.
The back right pocket is molded
around a wallet.
The way he moves–
There’s a stride with the right
Drag with the left.
He’s too careless to really give a damn if he limps.
His clothes are as worn as he:
The dull fleece jacket
Lies unzipped on his person,
Flapping with each broken step.
A blue-battered t-shirt matches his weary eyes
And a corduroy cap stiched with “Kubota”
(his favorite brand of toy).
He sees me and smiles
I try to hide but it’s unavoidable.
He loves me, he knows me–
And we’re in the mall together
On his only day off.
And over his shouder
There’s a shovel.
