My Father's Belt

The skin was soaked with creases;

It’s deeply tanned complexion battered

By sweat and soil,

By buckle and breech.

The buckle stoutly

Imposed itself as

The focus of his frame.

A clasp of tarnished brass

Had daily impaled

The third notch hole

Where he always closed his waist.

The deepest crease was to the west

Of that third eyelet,

Elongated to twice the length

Of its virgin sisters.

The clasp and buckle would clank

Early each morning.

In summer heat the hide reeked

When he worked,

Evoking odors of a herd

Of old cows.

Confining and defining his median

It firmly wrapped his girth.

It never lashed

His children’s hides.

The hand that fastened it

Always fell empty, but fully

Denying any need to unleash

His harness.

I’ll bet he still has that belt.

I do not think

Belts are made like that anymore.