Something Different

With very little true creativity left in my these days, I was surprised to come up with this poem during a couple of bike rides. The idea originated somewhere in the first ride, and then lines and images were added in a second ride. What was then typed up a week or so later is only a bit different than what's below. This one is a little tighter and succinct than the first draft. My friend Shawn gave me a suggestion for the first draft, but my stubbornness has, so far, resisted his input.

Drawing My Father

On a March evening I asked my father
how he would like to be defined, how
one day he would want his grandchildren
to know him. I sat with my sketchbook
and drew his face for my fourth-grade project
on Family. He set the Tribune on his lap.
Beneath the blue coveralls his belly rose
and fell so that the newspaper
rustled against the fabric.
I charcoaled his eyebrows and the creases
above them. When I glanced up for reference,
my father was looking at me. He raised the corner
of his mouth as if he were Elvis, and I was not sure
then if his eyes should be drawn as pained or proud.