The world could snore, wrangle, or tear
itself to atoms while Papa sat
unnettled, bashful, his brain
a lathe smoothing thoughts civil
above fingers laced and pink
as baby booties; Papa, who said of any gambler,
roughneck, drunkard, just “I don’t think much
of him”’ and in stiff denims
toted his lunch pail’s spuds
down a plumbline of twelve-hour shifts:
farmed, milked, lumbered, and, cow-kicked,
let the bones knit their own
rivet, oiled big wheels that bullied
water uphill, drank stout, touched animals only
unawkwardly, drove four-in-hand and sired six.
My ideas are dumb: a fizz
mute and thick as the head on a beer
he once thought, who never thought
such clabber could whiz through
genes and seed and speak.
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