My father carved a walking stick for me.
He chose a sturdy branch and trimmed it free
of shoots and then he whittled carefully
my name and figures of geometry.

They sat the summer afternoons away,
two fathers tall and old two score of years
ago, but young they are for me today,
remembering:
the Pabst Blue Ribbon beers
they drank – the way they sat secure and strong
with patterned walking sticks between their knees –
are pictures no one’s camera took. As long
as life I’ll rent them room within my memories,
for clearer than the image of their craft,
I recollect how frequently they laughed.

(one of my few print-published pieces: The Enigmatist, December 2009)