Portrait of Father in a Dust Storm

Something wants to cry,
Something else wants to laugh

At the rimless glasses
And business suit,

The lightening rod in one hand,
Symbol of Insurance,

The World War II block warden’s
Helmet in the other.

At times I feel
Like painting over

The background scene with the black
’37 Chevy on a river road

The shabby Kansas farm houses
And rachitic wind pumps.

I’m satisfied, though, with
The sky from horizon to edges

Burgundy orange with blown dust
And with the way I have the wind

Wrecking the part in his black hair
And twisting his tie, and he

Still smiling
His posed-for-a-picture smile.

The dust storm is my excuse
for not doing the better job with his eyes:

The blurs, the smudges in front
Of his glasses are so that I won’t

Have to explain that I don’t know
What to put there, how

Death only silenced his silence.