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.
Born in Texas on August 4, 1952, Scott Hightower is the author of Part of the Bargain, winner of the Hayden Carruth Award for New and Emerging Poets
Date Published: 2010-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/my-father