Inktober 5. Build.

when I think of builders

I think of the architect 

who beat me at cards

kings cup in oregon

and said: every builder is

made a fool by 

                    entropy 

 

then when he won: he 

bust up in a fit of laughter

so hard the antique chair

groaned and suddenly

bust. When I was a boy,

 

my father was a mechanic and 

kept long hours in his 

garage alone. Even then 

I felt his distance and 

I think he felt

mine too. But

 

the last time he held me, he threaded

 

me through his winch: 

a loop for dead or dying 

transmissions of soft red rope. 

My father

 

pulled hand over 

dirty hand–until I was up 

and up with my arms out

like Christopher Reeve.  

 

My father was a builder.