My father drove
a potato chip
truck twenty years;
swapped chips with the cookie
driver and the coke man.
I had thirteen
cavities my first
trip to see Dr. Reid,
a dentist with chronic bad breath
who gave me candy for compliance.
Al the mechanic
was a gray haired
negro my dad liked
to give peanut butter
and chips for his kids.
On Saturdays I stood
while my dad drove,
the truck door wide open.
my stuck out in traffic
never a thought of dying.
For a man
his penmanship was nice,
orderly and odd for big fingers,
had a knack for making people
like themselves.
One year
he got a pocket watch
he never used,
nothing ever changed
for the Salesman of the Year.
And the watch
in a box that is hidden
still winds and ticks
and keeps time
my father gave me.