My father, the showman,
would deejay weekends
at local bars. He liked
the Commodores, Sugar Hill,
Temptations,
and beer,
but it was the song
by Skynard he loved -
finding the thing
he lost.
I watched him dance,
his eyes closed,
thick factory fingers snapping
with strobes and smoke
and bar-crowd cheers.
He slid front then back,
his feet like skates.
then frantic toe-tapping,
magic that this was my father,
sweat-drenched, dripping,
and in his chest, all along,
a dying heart.
But that would happen after work
a few years later, on a Monday night,
in his early sleep.
I imagine his last day
on the assembly line:
Stepping side-to-side with machine
partners, then soft shoe back,
spin, arms raised,
sweet swan.
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