He plays the guitar
by the stove,
his beard a premature gray,
his hair black like an Indian,
his eyes blue as English.
He opened my heart,
my father,
stroking the old Gibson,
the smell of wood burning,
tea in the plump pot,
brewing its mahogany red.
Dad played his songs,
old songs,
the best songs he said,
for me and my brother,
in the winter,
our small voices joining his.
The green walls of the kitchen,
cracked paint,
like his hands
with great blue veins,
eyes far away
as he played.
Folk tunes,
1920 tunes,
story songs,
poetry songs,
wistful longings.
A tune of trains
and whiskey.
And we sang until our voices tired,
and the tea was gone,
and sleep tugged at our eyes,
as he put his guitar aside.
We went off,
as he stoked the stove,
letting the fire consume its ashes
in one last burst of flame.
Then he came to our room.
kissing us into dreams
as pleasant as eternal summer,
where he plays the old songs,
the best songs,
the three of us singing
somewhere,
together.