My father parks what he calls his blonde truck a little too
to other cars on the block, to conserve space.
He yells “Hark” when he comes home,
and “Hark,” my mother responds quietly.
She’s reading the paper.
“What is a kiss?” my father asks the dog, who licks his face.
“You don’t know what a kiss is.”
He stretches out on the floor
in front of our television set,
grinding his lower back
onto the coffee table,
waiting for a pop.
At the end of the news hour,
the crew of a space shuttle comes on for an interview.
They try to stay in some approximation
of a seated position,
but they float upwards. One man
has all but given up —
you can see him giggling as
his head bumps the ceiling.
Afterward, the scent of burnt garlic
wafts from the kitchen.
My father’s cooking dinner.
He’s arranged bell peppers over
a pile of ground meat,
a pinwheel he’s proud of, and which he photographs.
“White Sox are on now,”
he says, and the jocular
timbre of the announcer
fills the room like a
He calls a fly ball
a “can of corn.”
For the first time we’re curious.
“Easy to reach,” my father says.
He plays with the chocolate ice cream
on his spoon, creating a creamy sculpture.
“Can of corn,” he
says in twenty different
voices. He likes it.