His white footprints through the house
from cement mixing like a ghost we’d failed
to trap our whole lives. The coffee rings
on the homework he was meant to sign.
The radios in every room set to the same
drones on WCFL, The Voice of Labor.
The snap unfold of the morning paper.
The whack to the back of the head
if you dared disturb him while he read.
The grandfather clock ticking every quarter
hour. The doors locking us out Saturdays
while he napped. His shouts as he burst out
of his chair during a fight, like the one
in 1976, when George Foreman knocked out
Ron Lyle in the fifth round in Las Vegas.
The slugfest he dealt the couch and chair
after as I giggled. His throwing me so
high in the air, the fan blades brushed
my hair, despite how he’s been saying
for years I’m too big for such things.