Papa Brooks
"Tu-ra-lu-
ra-lu-ra"
his baritone,
breathy,
wafts of Bushmills whiskey.
His skin, the dead leaves
caught
in a fall wind
and mist
on some random summer
Monday
that blanketed
the rising
monoliths of a
slow town.
Hands
of knotted oak
sweat dirt
over faded blue jeans,
grasp an old gold tone
pocket watch
that flecked
sparks,
opened and closed.
The scent of
those hands,
sea salt and grey flannel
sweet opium pipe smoke,
ephemeral
apparitions caught between
shifting rays of sunlight.
As he waltzed home,
he would
pick
pennies
off of the frozen tundra,
one
for each daughter.
Copper wishes
blown,
across their
half carved palms.
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