As a young man he inhaled asbestos
in the shipyards, went to war, returned,
ran a corner grocery. He was a city boy
who could tell a good melon by its thump
and believed that corn should not be shucked
until the water was boiling. 

Often laid off, he loved to fix
things around the house, screen doors
shelves, peeling wallpaper.  Or fix
himself a highball, sit in his chair
tie askew, with the Evening Star
and a handful of peanuts, as if
he had just come home from the office. 

My father didn’t finish high school
didn’t become an architect
didn’t take his medicine
didn’t stop smoking. He died
at 60, the age I turn today.