To My Father at Fifty
We are driving fast over prairie in a protoMustang
north to a conifer bush to cut the Christmas tree,
my father, and brother and sister,
and I.
My breath is short
as the prairie day—
the light—dazzling.
My brother and I fight over the axe, by turns hack.
Smoking a Sportsman, his boots laced to his knees, Dad carries Pam.
He’s as tall as the trees.
That summer we tour the Imperial refinery—all it makes, he sells. As the late evening sun lights its oil storage,
he remarks that the sunset’s red light on the white tanks
is lovely
and his wide smile proves it so.
J.M.D: 02.09.95