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.
