labor day weekend

i forget why dad comes over
but we stand on the porch & wait
for the parade to end.
it is a parade only him & i can see:
jupiter beetles & dinosaurs 
& a little brigade of men whose job it is
to spoon-feed the sun when it is sick.
sweat on our faces. i do not want
him to leave but i
do not have anything else
to say to him. loving my father has meant
cutting the heads off conversations
& collecting a tote bag of every truth unsaid
& everything question that has turned
into a salamander & wriggled away.
escape your need for closure while you can.
he crosses his arms. he remembers
when we used to play trumpet.
wake up the neighbors. the birds.
mouth to brass. the parade has knives.
the parade has so many sons.
i have always wanted to ask,
"do you know i am your son?"
sometimes the potential to hear
the response you do not want
is reason enough to leave
some hungers unanswered.
the parade drags on. we eat spearmint
from the dying bush. green between
our teeth. he says, "i should
get going" & i do not stop him. 
i finish the parade alone. it is him,
my father, a part of the procession
by accident, driving away from town.