Saturdays, after eighteen holes, my father
pitched in around the house, doing his share
of the dishes, drying, one of mom’s aprons
stretched tight around the bulb of his belly,
the yard, of course, mowed every weekend,
stopping every five or so rows to empty the bag of clippings.
He’d crush mole tunnels with the heels of his tennis shoes
that had become stained Amazon-tree-frog green.
Carry the bags of clippings to the curb.
Tackle any remaining chores, tighten the screws
of the door knob that kept coming loose,
patch the window screen that his youngest boy
had repeatedly poked a pencil through.
He’d wring the sweat from his shirt,
toss it in the washer, leave the dirty shoes
on the mat beside the back door.

After showering, he’d settle into a chair on the deck,
or before the TV if the Cubs were playing,
cocktail and cigarettes until it was time to eat,
after which, back to the recliner:
as predictable as the tide, up went his sock feet,
asleep in no time, his snoring
a white nose machine filling his sons’ heads
with instructions for living the good life,
if they’d been paying attention.