Descending

At 80 my father still growls at his tractor;

Still prowls his field first thing each morning

Just to absorb its light; still descends a levee

He climbs to look over his neighbors crops.

Still sometimes calls me, at 50, “Boy.”

He only called to me by my name once.

Before that, I knew that he knew it, because

He would refer to be by name when he spoke

Proudly of me to others. This one time no one

Else was there to hear him, but me.

It was an evening of my fourteenth year,

Out on the levee road with a ton of sand

Atop our pickup and a flat tire below, perched

Us perilously between oncoming traffic

And a roll down the steep levee bank.

We had to shovel a few hundred pounds

Of sand off, just so the jack could lift

The truck. While I stood sentinel to wave

At drivers coming around the levee’s bend

My father stooped to change the tire.

A loud thump and a sudden slump

Of the truck startled me, but not as much

As a mortal sound in my father’s voice

As his hand got trapped under the wheel

Because of the slipping jack. He yelled,

“Ken, my hand’s caught!” Acting as fast

As I could, I righted the jack, lifted the truck

And freed his hand, but imprisoned my future

With stark memory of my father’s descent

On that levee and hearing my name used in fear.