with the stick of gum that leaves a rectangular mark
on the back of M-1 Abrams

tanks or General Schwarzkopf pictured
here in his desert camo. Dads are

just pretty great like that, if first you beg them for a buck

in the Hy-Vee ten-items
-or-less checkout lane.

Dads are six-foot-everything

with wood-finish brown eyes

with Fruit of the Loom t-shirts buckshot by welding sparks;

dads smell like coffee and engine grease.

Picture: Dads with oil-stained hands full:

a gallon of 2%,
block of cheddar,
dozen eggs.

Dads nestle milk jug beneath chin,
pinch dollar bill from wallet. They

can’t help but watch you watch the cashier
scan the pack. You can see the bulge

the gum makes, taste
its limited sweetness

already. Dads drive home while you shuffle
your Desert Storm trading cards, gum’s

pink-gray bubble
growing in front of your lips,

expanding like a
slow explosion.