Kadena

A photo of us sits on my desk. You gave it to me 

after the stock market crashed

Santa Claus into a commercial building. 

You gave me an IOU in a box 

like I could grow it into a Power Ranger.

Your ex wife stole your daughter’s college savings 

and hid it under another man’s mattress.  

A thirty thousand dollar job disappeared 

beneath the laminate you laid. 

You could feel debt collectors 

crawling on your skin 

like ants that you thought 

were there but never were. 

You put me to bed and 

worked the overnight at the mall. 

Hanging drywall like skeletons

and laying tile like graves.

You drove me to school in your Chevy

that was rusting like pennies. 

The fan belt was announcing our presence

from the driveway to school

through the hillside roads

like a coyote lost from its pack.  

Before I got out of the truck

you wiped the donut crumbs off my shirt. 

I was at home in the hallway 

pitching to the wall against imaginary batters. 

Winning the world series, throwing perfect games. 

Denting the drywall with a tennis ball. 

You told me after we moved that it fell through.

When my arm gave out you put me to work.

Taught me demolition 

and wiring so I could be an electrician. I liked how 

the lights looked when they were turned on 

the first time, like the ember 

of the first cigarette we shared

that night on the Kadena, when I put the 

flame up to the moon to match its glow.