He was an aloof man.
I never heard him laugh.
While we made messes of his life,
he quietly honed his craft.
Sitting on his stool,
a guitar across his lap,
he would pluck off random chords
that made no one want to clap.
A blue thread of smoke
wafting from his cigarette
joined the steam from his coffee
to form an addict’s minaret.
With sad grey eyes,
he would watch us play;
His thick grey lick
ever dangling in his way.
You could tell he loved her–
my mother I mean.
It takes real love
to paint this kind of scene.
“She was fat and lazy,”
he told me one eve,
but he wiped away a tear
using the cuff of his sleeve.
I took offense,
but because I couldn’t see.
He was trying his best to hide
a terrible pain from me.
He never said he loved her.
He never said this thing.
He just walked around our house
stroking his wedding ring.
Koyotee Laughing 