It'd happened several times since I'd seen him last--
My hand had gone for the horn prematurely
in a sad-sack false alarm
when I thought I saw his truck approaching
in the lines of on-coming traffic.
The roof-racks always proved to be different
upon closer inspection, the drivers had no beards.
My hand went back to the shifter.
The lump in my throat sank southwest.
Then today he finally called: made the same jokes
we've had for years, did his impersonation
of that journeyman we couldn't stand
but suffered through together.
It was good to hear his awkward optimism
not knowing how to respond, where to
next take the conversation.
When I got off the phone and went back to work
the pipes seemed to slam themselves right together.
I wasn't so alone anymore.
I had my make-shift dad back.
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