and you can turn out a hunk of gold
From worn down sheet metal.
Your old school hands
Are large and calloused
But nimble and full of colorful memory,
Baseball games, tinkering with everything,
Conjuring whittled and sanded treasures
From gnarled burl or an old tabletop.
You're my dad, you're the miracle man.
I remember you on the day I was hit by a car,
So many faces staring down at me,
and I saw yours first.
Your mustache was the stuff of legend,
Your trucks were tireless soldiers
Rusting away in an industrial war,
and their seat covers deflected the chemical fog
Which tickled me on morning rides to school
As you chuckled and rolled up your window.
In a sacred archive sits a tape recording you made
Reading "Jack and the Beanstalk" to me at bedtime
On nights you had to work.
I could fall asleep to it even now.
I love my Dad.