We swam with my father in a can of soup,
conjured bagels into diner stools, and
flew away on a napkin ring--

my mom made our family inside a crock pot--
lifted a lid to set clouds free in 
the kitchen-- 
my father was her serving spoon--
a bowl on the counter after school--
he didn't cook--
at best he could navigate a defrost button
or conjure bagels from a toaster
to dress in a block of cream cheese--
when i was sick home from school
with him we built a day in cans of soup--
a sharp metropolis and the metallic
snap of another lid--
here we entered the
orbit of Italian wedding pearls-
meat ball irises blinked us
into a front door-- and oyster cracker--
becamse gold fish crackers together to cross
another chasm of broth strewn with
endive and escarole--
and some night when my mother didn't 
leave instructions for dinner 
my father was left to pure improvisation
he became the steering wheel chief 
of an empty crock pot-
the summons of Mamma's Delight pizza
waiting on the door step--
a tower of pepperoni breathing
cheese into another February--
but my brother and i's favorite meal
our father made was 
spun on a diner stool--
we learned flight out a window again
and again-- the lift of tiny airplanes--
today the hanger at the Airport Diner 
lays hallow--a gaping mouth
relic of a hive of bi-planes--
the diner overlooked a working runway--
the three of us would take a booth
seat to observe the bustle of the
planes as the ran into the sky--
my father folded paper napkin
rings into planes to coast across 
the table at us while
we were watching a propeller 
grapple with a cloud--
we took our utensils and 
pinned club sandwiches in our pockets
with tooth picks to
board the papers airplanes on
a trip across a black and white milkshake--
and my father told the story again 
about driving to Canada and
seeing the stars how they're supposed to
be-- made a promise to take
us someday and both my brother and 
i imagined travel by means of 
paper planes-- 
my father had flew in the yellow
biplanes-- touched down in a
bowl of Italian wedding soup
only to fish us out of the lumps of kale
and spinach-- i clung to a meat ball--
we came back to earth sometimes 
in the form of the rounded side of
a bagel becoming a diner stool--
a clear glass filled with orange 
juice and a tiny box
of cereal for my brother to 
eat with his hands--
if nothing else my father's cooking
taught me to swim in a bowl 
of condensed soup-- paddle 
with a spoon-- trust 
your existence on the arch
of a paper plane across a table--
we were black and white milkshake
straws and the vibrant frills 
on the heads of tooth picks--