My father, the Vietnam Vet left me with tools (electrical and otherwise),
A sword, knives, papers, paperbacks, coins, keys, wicker, wood,
fishing poles, lures and line, a silver pick up truck with fine tires
And macrame, hand made macrame with beads.
Motor transport school declared my dad a truck driving army man,
The truck and our love of travel spun out from there.
The curious urge to dig into the mysteries of unknowing,
Finding the scion and shaping the gnomon,
Those desires came from deeper.
Seeing your face flattened by death is a sight I would have run from,
Yet your Vietnam vet buddy insisted that I view the body.
Nothing removed from your flesh.
The blood sank down solidly thickening sinking,
Sank fast like the balls in your Chicago strait
Man could he kick em in the hole,
one, two, even three at a time,
when he was hot.
He came home to be thrown,
Rambling endlessly, Texas, Hawaii, New Orleans, Seattle,
He became a hero of the Homeless, helping everyone.
In Hawaii he stumbled on a pot of Gold
In Texas he ran from deputies.
Vietnam mind melt agent orange
and its death and its death.
Finally, New York.
Soldiers secrets told and forgiven,
frozen or forgotten.
Daddy your macrame,
And your Wood box full of tools
Are all well employed in
Hope chest, the chest of hope, lies in
Waiting in the spare room by the
Chair you sat in,