out of sight and enough out of the way
for me to watch him without his looking at me.
That was my spot. A place that suited me.
There was a thick rug, matted in most spots,
that smelled like him. Like his chair did.
Like his whole house -- I didn't like it.
It was a trailer. Tin house. Thin.
In a shed were fishing poles, big lures,
tackle boxes with little drawers that
folded out. A little boat, a tattered tarp,
on a trailer on a dirt floor. Dust.
He was a big man, wild white hair,
as I remember. As luck would have it
I am like him, if I can trust my
mother's memory. She said
they heard him saying -- he may have
been singing -- he was alone,
an old man crying, saying
he wanted to do great things.
When her hair turned white, wild like
her father's had, her sayings -- her
singing stopped -- were about
great things, out of sight.