On a summer evening I’m ten,

my dad is just home from work,

sitting in his truck, engine off

and radio on, listening to

the last crackles of “Southern Man,”

which spins my mother in frenzies

with its crazy guitar and Neil Young’s

pitching vocals, a harsh affront

to her robed Baptist choirs.
From the front yard where I’m

catching baseballs with my brother,

I strain to hear the song crying

from the driver’s wing window,

pivoted wide, and I know Dad’s

resting his elbow atop the door,

head leaned back, wearing a t-shirt

with torn-off sleeves and the red

beginnings of a tan. His dark hair

is shot with sawdust and the sweat

of eight hours spent framing hemlock

2-by-4′s in a bowl of sun.
The music drops our baseball

and breaks with the static snap

of the radio and slamming

truck door. We ditch our mitts

and race for the smells of dinner,

banging screen doors, “Dad’s home”,

an announcement that hangs

like a warning above the sink

where we wash our hands

before fidgeting in our seats,

ignoring Mom’s nervous smile,

while he takes his place, scowling

at meatloaf and baked potatoes,

again this week. Then we all choke

down silence, thick as sour cream.