Dad
Dad could roll a cigarette
with just two fingers
and the tip of his tongue.
I saw him do this once
in a wind storm.
He would shave close enough
to keep his grizzled face
blue by moonlight.
He could dive easy into an engine
to hunt out a rattle or a hiss
then twist its tail with a wrench;
make it purr.
He could blarney a half truth,
yarn it all out to fuddle
many a scholar.
He was an expert drinker,
astounding all-comers
and never tippling over
a knife edge.
When he walked in my shoes
I felt I could do magic also.
He would tell me
that I had to be a genius
to be my kind of dumb.
That was old-fangled conjuring,
a natural hocus-pocus -
I practice a little of that.
myself.
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