You are faces on a photograph,
shoebox memories, forgotten space.
Salt pills and lunch pails,
burnt-out Chevrolets on 4th Street.
Used Fords bought half price.
You are warm beer on Sunday afternoons,
a rifle in the closet,
a story of a German soldier dying,
crucifix in one hand,
family portrait in the other.
You are artificial Christmas trees,
humble gifts,
wrapped in Sunday comics,
arranged painstakingly on the smoke-stained carpet.
You are a three-hour drive,
fast-food dinners,
falling asleep to the radio.
Boxes of useless necessities,
cheese knives, packing tape.
The smell of cigarettes,
scratchy blankets, brown woolen socks.
You are no headstones, no flowers,
no funeral, no recollections.
You are not yet a man,
but the flesh of his only son.