“It’s the little details that make it,”my father and I agree,as we talk art and poetry down the freeway.Dad talks about his new watered-down blue-green painting technique,something that will bring the painting offyet nobody will notice the trick of it,and as he talks he looks ahead at traffic and sky,envisioning paint and water blending to his new color.
I sit in the passenger seat,and dad, my old man,I notice you like a hawk,cuz I’m turning into you.
When I was young I was exasperatedwhen each year you had two and only two thingson your Christmas list: socks and underwear.To my dismay, I unwittingly added underwear to my Christmas list this year,in a few more years I’ll enjoy receiving oh boysocks.
I inherited your heightand when I bump my head I’m horrified,not about finding blood,but that I reflexively check for blood the exact same wayyou do,applying open palm to the foreheadand then examining my hand for red spots,one of your many nuancesthat are becoming mine.
I inherited your blood,a secret mixture nobody notices,bringing me to a height where I seewe got something good going down this freeway,a simple father who paints,and his simple son, who writes poems.