My Father’s Spice
Forty-eight years gone
still a puzzle
Yet the bouquet memory
of his walk-in closet
musky and male
suits and sport coats
tidy, shoes polished
‘til they reflected light
And ties—so many ties
myriad colors, wool and silk
I liked to crouch under
the jackets, drink in his spice
Signature arctic
wiry hair, his pride
among balding friends
He carried a leather briefcase
washed his Lincoln with care
on weekends
During spring break
in an elm-shaded park
I saw my father
in the Lincoln, lifting
a brown-bagged bottle
to his lips
It must be bourbon
His thoughts, his dreams
he hid well both drowned
in the liquid and from me