Words of My Father

Version 1

With his paste bucket, scissors and long table,
my father was a menagerie. He could measure,
cut and paste wallpaper like a stalking eagle
snagging prey. He’d fold the pasted sheets, graceful
as a swan, carry them like a pelican, bill filled
with fish, match the seams with the eye of a hawk.

Like a shark, he never stopped moving, devouring
his prey on the run. Then, like a salmon swimming
upstream, he’d seek out the next obstacle
to conquer. A bear of a man, he worked alone
with the singularity of purpose of Moby Dick sinking
Ahab’s ship, relentlessly charging until the job was done.

Version 2

With his paste bucket, scissors and long table,
my father could measure, cut and paste wallpaper
like an artist, fold the pasted sheets — enough to fill
a whole wall — match seams with hawk’s eyes.
He worked alone, relentless until the job was done,
like Moby Dick sinking Ahab’s ship.

When he’d washed his brushes, cleaned the bucket,
stashed his tools inside the station wagon, piled scaffold,
and table on its roof, he rushed through traffic like
a surly boar. At home, he brayed like a mule. He didn’t
drink. His father had been a drinker. He was faithful
as a wolf, though mom’s cat-like teasing would set him off.

During holidays and in summer, he’d be home,
staring owl-like into space. Nights, he’d play solitaire
in the dining room, huddled over the cards. I’d see him
when I went for a snack or came home from a date.
We’d mumble greetings. In my 20s, after my Army stint,
I found out he loved me. Damn, I miss him.