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I pay bills the way he did,
checkbook, calculator, roll
of stamps laid out on a Sunday
near the end of the month,
ripping the perforations, stuffing
the trash can with what doesn’t matter,
licking envelopes, a tidy stack
of outgoing mail, adding it up
to get the number for the month
which keeps the walls around me.
Maybe he felt powerful, or just
responsible, signing those checks,
sitting hours at his desk, slumped,
his big back to me and the rest
of the house. What I did
was bring him coffee, black
steaming cups burning my fingers
down the long carpeted hallway.
I emptied his ashtray. I put my small
fists in his shoes and shined them.
If there was more to my father
it was in a place I couldn’t see,
and now that I’m approaching
the age he was when we stopped
speaking, I’m beginning to get
a hint of him in what I say
when I’m not thinking, a glimpse
of his hairline in the rear view mirror.
Sometimes on the golf course I imagine
he’s golfing too, five states away,
studying his ball, waggling the club
three times the way I do, a signature
twist of the back, left hand
up to shade the eyes, and the same
God damn son of a bitch!
when it disappears into trees.
— Douglas Goetsch
from First Time Reading Freud