Nuclear Reminders

I'm not even sure
if it's real gold or not.
My father was never
much of a spender
but he insisted
that the jeweler he met
on his pilgrimage to Israel
five years ago
was selling rings
like they rose out of the sand.
Not being one to miss out
on a deal, he called me
long distance and had me
get sized.
(A ten or eleven, though
I've since forgotten.)
The girl at the counter
wished well to the groom.
The snake oil token
would soon be delivered.

When he came back stateside
and presented it to me
over dinner at his favorite diner
I was rather confused by his reasoning
as usual. It was scrawled with funny lines
on either side of what looked
like a lobster. Upon seeing
the bewilderment on my face
the old man clarified:
my name, Michael David
inscribed in Hebrew
with a menorah in the middle
for good Godly measure.
All of this came as a shock to me
being that we're not Jewish.
I thanked him and tucked it into
my pocket for safekeeping
until I could get home to toss it
onto my dresser where it'd
collect dust with the other
knickknacks time, unlike me, had forgotten:
fortune cookie proverbs;
forklift keys;
hair ties belonging to lovelies long gone;
bits of cardboard with bits of lines
when I should've bitten my tongue.
An ironic Holy Land T-shirt would've sufficed

but that ring, real or not
took on a new role
when the rift hit
that November
like Axl's shrill downpour.
For over five years
my dad was estranged
too jaded by Jesus
and sins of our fathers
to acknowledge that sons
have clouds of their own.
His last gift was treasured
if only for its timing.

Tried wearing it once
but it wasn't my style
even with the image
turned in toward my palm.
The ring rode in pockets.
It hung from a chain.
A few heartless sadists
I mistakenly laid with
tried stealing it on me--
they knew where to cut.
It went into hiding
within my steel safe
flat on one side
where a drunkard had thrown it
against his bedroom wall
during a dark time
when a father's words would've
worked wonders while waiting
for the world to rewind.
Its inscription never told me
who I was, or why.
Funny how letters don't always
give meaning.

With him back around now
it won't be the last.
He's already given me
plumbing work, guns
and a bouncing baby boy
whom I can call brother.
My ring was recommissioned
linked onto a keychain
late at night near
the time of my birthday.
I'll be far upstate
on a powerhouse job
while its keeper
holds down what's left
of the fort.
I ain't got gold
and I ain't got money
but I'll happily share
the fortune I've found.


Currently reading:
"Pulp" by Charles Bukowski.