I’m not my Dad, the first Joe.
I can’t build you a castle, a house,
or even a box. Wood and nails feel
as alien to my being as ingesting those
half-gestated Asian duck eggs.
I can’t scramble them, bake them
in a cake, or choke them down
in any form.
I know my limitations, and carpentry,
auto mechanics and such gifts
he almost taught me are
nice dreams for this smooth-hander,
but are as within my grasp as walking
the moon, dunking a basketball,
or entanglement in the warm limbs
of Andie MacDowell.
I can build something like houses
and castles and worlds, though,
out of words. Some even look pretty,
plumb, and even true.
I wonder if Dad would be as proud
of these skills as I always was of his.
Maybe he might think, with words, I’m
finally handier than tits on a bull.