was a cowboy. My father was a sugar man. My father was a teamster. My father was a Siberian tiger; a corsair; a lamb, a yellow dog, a horse's ass. My father had a triple bi-pass. My father was a rat but he bought me my first hat. My father believed in decency and fair play. My father drove the getaway. My father was a blue jay. My father drove the boys away. My father drove a Thunderbird, a Skylark, a Firebird, an old pickup truck with a rusty tool box, a Skybird, a Sunray. My father drove hard bargains ever day; he was a force. My father was mercurial. He was passive, a little moody: rock... paper... scissors. He loved me. He loved me not. He stomps and hurls lightning bolts. Has slipped away. Passed away. My father was passé. My father was a Texas Ranger. Taught me to pray. Because of him, I hoard things in an old shoe box. Because of him, I use botox. Because of him, I look to clocks. Because of my father, I know how to oil the gate; don’t own a map. Because of my father, I have no use for similes. Because of my father, I hunger for my own catalog of metaphors. (for Doris Schnabel)
Copyright © 2010 by Scott Hightower. Used by permission of the author.