For Dustin Neil Smith, 1971-2019
Father Figures large
In young boys’ eyes
Headed out early, to work with hand and mind
Type into words, bolts into steel
He molds the world and shapes it,
Bends it to his will
Sells the space and sells the hope
Of a narrow, lonely town—
While houses rise from Iowa fields
And hay looms large in a dewy dawn
Father Figures work,
Learned here, between the squealing pigs
Jostling for the heavy water
Hanging on skinny arms,
Knuckles white with strain—
Here, he thinks, he will yearn to work for more
And here, he thinks, he will feel the majesty of space
The thin lines of domestic cathedrals
The dreams of an architect come to life—
He can do this, too, he thinks—While I can only make it breathe
Father Figures divide
On either side of a bathroom door
Locked tight on a Sunday night
One barred by the weight of the other.
Their mothers raised them to be
The living promise of their fathers’ fondest hopes
Hold them up anyway—
They still shine, like beams bouncing on the waves
Brilliantly living lives beyond the wildest living dreams
of Father Figures