for you, if there were any left,
give a dozen of the best
to your father, the auto mechanic
in the small town where you were born
and where he will die sometime by dark.
I am afraid of his hands, which have
rebuilt more of the small parts
of this world than I ever will.
I would sign treaties for you, take
every promise as the last lie, the last
point after which we both refuse the exact.
I would wrap us both in old blankets
hold every disease tight against our skin.