Dear Uncle Steve

My khaki shorts

and blue, zapzilla

t-shirt

were no match for your flannel

and blue jeans. My

soft hands and,

casual arm strength

held no sway underneath

your dolly cart,

desk loader and

assortment of

working man’s machinery,

like extra-terrestrials, looking

through,

my unpolished eyes,

still glowing with inexperience.

The baseball cap you wore

had more,

sweat than my entire body

but,

we worked hard,

to afternoon, sunset, and

evening through, and

even though i hindered, more

than helped

you let me lift things,

put my shoulders behind dressers,

kitchen tables and,

crawl into corners,

gathering

carpet squares, record

players, dishware,

tandem bicycles, golf clubs,

and speaker cables;

your life,

now stacked

neck high

against my chest

and arms and thighs

We were strangers,

we were family;

we were

opposites, and harmony;

like trials

considered joy;

you knew,

a thing or two

about having, and

losing, so,

leaving, you made

home, where home

always had been.

You drove trucks,

big trucks, for citrus

growers, and

house movers, but whomever;

I knew,

even before watching you,

could

tuck in and out

of any tight turn;

and back quarter inches

from obstacles, while,

fearing

no heaviness,

darkness, or emptiness,

and that days without

were but days within

to thank god for,

his compassion

to give today,

so when i passed

you’d call out “mike,”

to ask about school

and church,

or, whether my check

engine light was on

and if i needed work.

you told me you were giving double

while trusting god for the harvest,

and i saw eternity

in your sincerity;

in your grill tools,

pool net, and sandaled feet

simplicity,

in your leaf blower,

white shirt, ball-cap

clean trailer, and calm-bodied

surety.

We were strangers,

we were family.

We were

opposites, and harmony,

like trials

considered joy;

you knew

a thing or two

about having, and

losing, so,

leaving, you made

home, where home

should be;

over a meal,

in the bottle of

table wine,

through the resonating

laugher, and

in the second glass,

the mid-evening door knock

half gospel,

half politics,

half nonsense - whole,

we just enjoy each others

presence, talk;

the request for a good movie

the, middle age

and still make your wife laugh;

gladness

for your children’s

happiness, and

in grand babies.

I wrote this on a bus. I wrote it for my wife and kids running through my thoughts, for the ones that run physically through yours; as both stood at a distance, near the hope I’d somehow piece us back together.