Beautiful distilled dream
where I was in front of my old
house on Sherman in a moving
truck with my late father.
All of my bric-a-brac and
various supplies were located
in the back of the moving
van. The van was choke full.
I was in the passenger seat and my
dad was at the wheel.

Tears than began performing a
strip tease on the geography
of my cheekbones. I told my
father that I missed him
and that I was sorry
that we would never have a chance
to go to any "Sox" games
or just have a chance to
converse about grown up things.

The bony knuckles of Dad's fist
then groped the clutch,
I was already holding the clutch
so I found his hand on top of
my fist tightly, squeezing it with
intensity and vigor.
He looked back,
a flash of tenderness
sunken into his brow
identical tears splashing
and he told me that
he was sorry that he
couldn't (physically)
be there too.


We sat in the moving van
outside my old house
father and son
and exchanged tears.