Poetry Thursday

Last week, Liz at Be Present, Be Here, initiated a weekly event called Poetry Thursday. I see it a celebration of poetry, written by amateurs and novices, and everyone else in between.

When I went to Liz's site this afternoon, I saw that she had instructed us to select poetry that makes us gasp. I wrote this poem before I read that, and I certainly don't think my poem will make anyone gasp. I like it okay--as usual, the words didn't scatter the way I intended them to (imagine me shuffling Scrabble tiles and getting frustrated).

It's about my Dad.
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The Details that Smooth Out the Dents

It is not so much the heavy, black lunchbox
like a metal suitcase, dented, with chipped paint,
or even, what is in it--

two bologna sandwiches, multi-grain bread,
a plastic bag bursting with potato chips,
nearly a dozen oreos,
two spicy dill spears wrapped in foil,
and an apple

the folded napkin,
once in half,
then, that,
in half again

a meal as solid
and dependable
as the man who brought it.

It is not so much the heavy black lunchbox
but the rough hands that have carried it
for 35 years
to and from the Plant--
with its smokestacks and boilers
noisy locomotives,
and gritty windows, gritty air, gritty bones.

It is not so much the heavy black lunchbox
on the passenger side floor
in a truck driven by a tired, honest man,
a quiet man,
over dusty roads and icy roads
and smooth ones, too.

It is not so much
the pictures of the grandsons in the locker,
the half empty packet of cigarettes in the pocket,
the Goldwing that he shines,
the inky bruise under the nail of his left thumb,
the baggy jeans (he has no ass),
the burst of sarcasm against a palette of calm,
or even, the heavy black lunchbox.

No, it is not so much that lunchbox,
like a metal suitcase, dented, with chipped paint,
at all.