Acts of service

A poem

I call my dad —

Sunday, 9:10 a.m.,

in the backyard, he says:

“There was a power surge,

so the sprinkler system was off track,

and the pool heater stopped working,

so I’m out here fixing things.”

No days off in being a dad, I think —

picturing him by the blue of the pool,

speaking into his Get Smart watch.

He stands in the world he planted —

by the yellow Hibiscus

and lemon tree,

under the balcony

he reconstructed

beam by beam.

The structure he makes real

in the unidealized world

is a wonder.

My dad always does the right thing —

an extraordinary faith turned outward.

In turn, I love

the sweat it takes

to build beauty —

that discipline is a reward —

my realism is holding

hope while doing.

I love that I become

what I got from him.

Joy and grief

— the sun and moon —

share the same sky.

My dad —

forever-and-gravity-dependable —

makes, I’m sorry, most other men disappointing.