Hooked

When my dad was drying dishes,

he’d hook his cane in his back pocket,

one hip cocked higher than the other

as he leaned over the sink for a plate.

The plate dry, he’d hitch himself toward the table

and add another to the stack of shining dishes.

At work he always hung his cane

on the right-hand corner of the desk

while he filled the ledgers of the Livestock Pool,

but the cane dangled, swinging, from his pocket

when we played catch in the yard at home.


When I was in high school,

rushing from the Uptown Cafe,

my new friends and I howling at some joke

that one of the guys had just made up,

there he was, my dad, crossing the street,

the light already red, my dad trying to hurry,

his cane striking the pavement, thunk, thunk,

as he jerked himself toward the curb.

I told my friends I had to go,

then turned and walked the other way.

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© Copyright, 2015, Robert Currie.
All Rights Reserved.