Our milkman brought the war home with him.
I could hear the bottles rattle from my room above the porch.
A doctor used a belt and a bicycle wheel
to put my dad's knee back in place.
(That's why he didn't serve.)
Dad's voice was calm.
I could picture him standing in the early chill in his plaid robe.
The milkman's staccato curses bounced off him like a breeze.
Dad died twenty years ago.
I'm divorced with a grown son.
I don't know what happened to the milkman.
Dad and I watched the moon landing together.
I wondered how they'd ever get home.
Daddy, I want to start over.
I need a belt, a bicycle wheel, and something to bite on.
I need to re-enter somehow.
If I do,
if I burn bright the way I used to
when I'd spot you;
If you'd say,
"There's my girl,"
I think I could find the blue ocean one more time
and bob like a cork, light as a child,
with helicopters coming fast from the eastern sky.