when I entered his house
wearing one of three button-downs
he'd passed my way
through proper female channels.
Two salts of the building trades
separated by three decades
moonlit as comedians
over pizza and wine
with the women we love
who'd bound us through circumstance.
We verbally sparred
with heads low, moving fast
like prizefighters who'd never won
more than a laugh at coffee break
shining in seas of charlatans
and hoping for a neutrally lateral afterlife.
Sinister notions require much breeding space
but we made the best of that kitchen table.
In unison we raised holy hell
never overshooting
as the eaves fell
iron sharpening iron
both knowing where to stop
since we'd lost too many fathers
for a lifetime
and couldn't afford a fold.
In a subtle twinkle
above a firm handshake
and mutual pats on backs
of tired shoulders
I heard what he didn't say
or use as ammunition:
"My shirt looks good on you, kid."
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