Sketch of My Father

I think he smelled like leather, something rich

and warm, like the hands he trailed up

and down my back when I was five

and angry that he was leaving me

with only the swing set he's built by the house

he'd no longer live in.

Or maybe that smell

came later when he bought a car with black

leather seats and started listening to country,

though we knew he really loved the blues

and a good trumpet solo to wail out the truth

that mistakes happen and that he couldn't go back

to happiness just by putting his car in reverse.

He kept it in the garage. One day he shut the door

and played those blues until the gas ran out.