My Old Man

(Another in a series of pieces about my familia.) 

My old man

sitting under the stars -

traffic flow,

siren call,

tv squawk,

fire glow,

streetlight shine,

cigar smoke.

My old papa

preferred the night sky,

flaming scrap wood

in the burn pit

at his feet.

Solitary witness,

solitary thoughts,

wafting out on 

tobacco stream.

Some nights 

while streets coughed

he’d talk -

classroom days

numberless,

kids squirming

and learning,

world of danger

and wonder,

first words and colors,

team play and numbers.

Some nights
under stars 

and memories 

he’d fly again,

hopping freight cars

across desert 

from LA to Yuma,

street muchacho 

with brown skin

dodging railroad cops

with their club justice.

“I ran to familia 

from familia woes,”

he told me.

“Alcohol father, 

gang avenues,

clamorous streets,

wound up hood,

stolen food.”

“At my Tia Rosa’s

there was always

a place for me.

Menudo Sundays,

pan dulce mornings,

shelter from hot sun

and sandpaper wind,

stars burning

in desert night.”

My old man

still sitting under 

the remembered stars,

grown up me

still dreaming

in a plastic chair

beside him,

cool suburban night,

street shine

and fire light

dancing on 

our tired brown faces.