Scenting air, sense atmosphere: powder creamed decaf
and bacon fat, Gma praise-crowned & worship-gowned from service picks
beefsteak tomatoes, too rare to spoil outside, Frigidaire is carved and Pops
maws hardwood smoked Gwaltney; its excess gilding Merita white. He flops cognac
chair, fastens sweat leather. Dandruff ashen Pop’s crown, aftermath of Wahl clippers,
and mosquito heat milling about his scalp. Six decades and bulging veins still bull
tendons, muscle—settle this month’s debts. My veins flush their blood, slight of coursing
half the laps of Pops—fourth of Gma’s; how will I someday guide their arks to bank?
Coming through, Pops drags a jay on way to room-which-never-gets-used. Vinyl
unsheathed and set, International Lover cajoles every nook of house—we move:
Gma-prayer, myself-chores, Pops croons, let me take you ’round the world
as he slides each arm into his everyday work jacket.