By Joseph Hesch
I'm not my Dad, the first Joe.
I can't build you a castle, a house,
or even a box. Wood and nails are
as alien to my being as those
half-gestated Asian duck eggs.
Can't scramble them, bake them in a cake,
or choke them down in any form.
I know my limitations, and carpentry,
auto mechanics and such gifts are
nice dreams for this smooth-handed
but are as within my grasp as
walking the moon, dunking a basketball,
or entanglement in the warm limbs
of Ashley Judd.
But I can build houses and castles
and worlds out of words. Some even
look pretty true and square.
There are times I wonder if Dad
would have been as proud of my skills
as I always was of his.