I remember as a child
watching my father take out the trash
at the frozen crack of dawn, cursing
as he dragged the stinking cans to the curb,
and thinking, that’s not something
I’m ever going to do.

​

In other ways I was a model son,
standing at the mirror as he shaved,
dabbing the warm cream on my cheek,
dreaming of a razor
and whiskers of my very own.

​

Watching him light up
as he read the Sunday paper,
one eye squinted against smoke
and bad news, had me reading the funnies
before I could even read, my eye
squinted against nothing.

​

And the deft, one-handed way
he straightened his fedora’s brim,
while at the same time
adjusting the coordinates
of rake and tilt, 
makes me regret that the hat, 
like my father, has vanished,

​

along with the strop and razor,
and lathery bowl of curds.
Even smoking, and the Sunday paper
are on their way out.

These are the losses I’m mourning
this morning as I drag the stinking
trash cans to the curb.