by BJ Fogg
I just might forget that week I’ve pasted in albums:
Luke two, a new puppy, Monterey sun.
But I’ll remember Dad
handwashing through the holidays.
Pouring Palmolive and massaging suds to life,
Dad moved easy like a tall tree-swing,
his white pinpoint oxford
safely under an apron.
And then I’ll remember how he stood
ten years ago in bare feet
and a Pendleton robe to make me breakfast
each weekday at five fifty-five a.m. How he opened
my eggs in pairs and nested empty
orange halves, and how I swallowed those mornings
without words.
