My dad had king-size Kents,
two or three packs a day;
healthy smokes, filtered, he’d say.
At 12 years old, he'd send his only son to run
three blocks to Beck’s, a dollar in hand.
I’d take the change and buy a TastyKake,
a green or red Rat Fink ring,
and a Hi-Flyer balsawood glider.
Tear a hole and gently remove
the delicate, untried wings.
Slide them through the tight slot of the fragile frame.
Anxiously adjust before the first flight,
then release to unknown heights.
We are borne on the breath of time,
too soon, leave the green or red talisman behind.
I watch as gliders gyre before
a blue and infinite sky:
my brittle youth, oblivious youth.
I close my eyes and clearly see
that burgeoning sky bought by a habit,
but not my father’s chair veiled in silver smoke.
I see Mr. Beck’s smile, but not my father’s face;
feel the soft pack like a friendly,
familiar grip, but not my father’s touch;
hear the cellophane crinkling,
but not my father’s laughter;
a glint of sun off the wrapper,
but not the spark in my father’s eyes;
the rise and fall of all those planes,
but not my father falling to the floor.
Ten cents spent on floating joy,
and each dime meant
a week, a month, a year
lost.