Our Fathers

It’s high noon on a high desert Wednesday;
the golden aureola ringing round
the sun laps at my face, its hot breath
irrupting into my mid-afternoon siesta.
I am supposed to be fixing a tire

for my father. He never taught me how
and so I ask a boy my age for help.
We share a bond, working for my father.
We work at work that’s never done, under that one
indiscriminate spotlight. We tell stories

of our fathers, or of our misdeeds, rather
and our fathers’ response. His, a solar wind;
a temperamental tempest of fiery flame,
flaring with rare intensity until it settles
for a dormant decade. I have worked

for his father too, and I have sensed the celestial
virility bubbling beneath his stoic exterior.
Worn yellow gloves adorn his hands
like sherriff’s stars. He is balding, never smiles,
only nods with tacit acceptance. Nothing

like my father, whose ivory glow I’ve come to crave.
I don’t realize what it means to me except in moments
of my misbehavior, when storm clouds obscure
my sight and I’d do anything to see
the light again.

We work until the day is done,
and watch the stars unveil themselves.
I count them all, holding their gaze,
and let each one own me in its own way.