For My Father, On His 61st Birthday

Wayne
was given his breath down there, deep and snug in the heart of the thing
maybe someplace where it meets the stew
around the border of the gut
right along the dotted line
Wayne
loved that whole deal
despite the heavy temper he had to dodge.
Squeezed between all the women
all the girls, he stretched his sleeves
over his hands
and learned to take the quietest steps.
he crossed the creaking floorboards
and walked down the stairs.
He tiptoed through whatever it was
that bothered
whatever it was that crashed old cars
into trees
or other old cars.

Wayne
caught cowhide and pigskin
in dirt-smeared fingers that held it all tight
like detasseling corn
or like he never wanted anybody to ever leave.
Wayne
found his new religion and the strength in his legs
under the skin of a cold body of water
found how great his arms could hug
along the steel rails and ties
along the green rows and mosquitos
under the insistence of a hot star who puts its palms
on us all.

Wayne
saw more.
Africa and Central America
Wayne
watched the bad cells gallop with weapons
down the fragile corridors of whole families, painting
the walls ugly and punching holes
watched the helicopters disappear behind treetops, smoking
watched in confusion as lots of things just went plain wrong.
Wayne
made up his mind about war
and blood
and the things a person owes to the living
and the not-so.

Wayne
makes up his mind about these things and others
every day
year in and year out.

Dad
gave us these things.
The baseball and the football and the pond
and the railroad and the sun and the piano
and the clarinet.
Dad
sees his sons and smiles.
Dad
gives us these things every day
year in and year out.

Wayne laughs and holds us like he never wants anybody to ever leave.
We won't, Dad.
We won't ever leave.


...
i'm a day late getting this posted. 61 years ago, yesterday, my father - Wayne Arthur Sell - was born. Happy Birthday, Dad.
-andy