poem about papa

a wide-brim stetson
and ostrich-skin boots
tan slacks, bolo tie
well, in here, we drink whiskey
he drawled in the saloon

i hammered in planks
on the boardwalk each july
sound of far-off cars
planes cut wisps through the high clouds
dust devils spun through pastures

like us, prowling round
in the ole bronco
i was twelve, awkward
barely into boys back then

he was the world’s biggest man.

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