Audio: Read by the author.
Metal shavings on the bottom
of his wingtips, my father
would come home in the dark
and take his shoes off,
I’d slip shoe trees in
and put them in the closet.
The next morning at four,
he’d put his shoes back on
and leave in the dark.
Every few months,
I’d pull the shavings out
with needle-nose pliers.
Never asking,
Shouldn’t a shoe tree
grow shoes,
and why aren’t you allowed
to see the sun?
My father the vampire.
My father the bank.
My father the black keys
played all at once.
I saved those shavings
for years and pounded them
into a spoon that only cuts
my lips a little to remind me
I’m the child of a drill press
and lathe.
Without the automobile,
I’d never have had
a ten-speed bike,
which is how I got addicted
to wind, which is why I became a bird
as soon as I left home, a hawk
who rejected gravity, steel,
middle management, exactly
as I was supposed to,
one wing-flap at a time.
