Portrait of My Father

…the son of a ragman

Half-tilt at a stack of 78’s looking for a gem
For Nina, for Dinah, for Phineas Newborn
For Monk

A coffee-induced “visit to the bȁthroom”
At 10am sharp
Or the day was lost

At 70 waking up knowing each day
Would come at the cost
Of walking into the wind
Tethered to a green tank
With wheels that almost eased
His wheezy way

Looking for Steinbeck, for Percy, for Maugham
First editions
This last born first American son of a ragman
With frayed trouser cuffs
With an “I stop at Garage Sales” bumper sticker
With another protecting “Smokers’ Rights!”

3 packs a day for 50 years
Then cold turkey

Though he never could stop
Poking with his finger
Bent like a broken lance
Looking for the missing cigarette
In the now empty pocket
Of his coffee-stained shirt