Those nights when my father
and I were loading his truck,
I would ask his help
with my seemingly
insurmountable problems
of a twelve-year-old.

And as he lifted crates
on to his hand truck or
rolled heavy drums across
the platform, he’d calmly tell me
how to keep my bike chain
from slipping, how to remember
 
my altar boy Latin, or what to say
to paper route customers
who were late in paying me.
With answers for everything
I stressed about, he seemed
the wisest man in the world.

These nights, I wish I could have
just 30 minutes to talk with him
about growing old in a world
where I am a husband and a father.
I long for more of his loving
wisdom whenever life reminds me

I have so much still to learn.


This poem first appeared in Lips Journal.
Used here with permission.