What if I had met Olin, lived with him a while, called him
Stan like his friends, grew up with those big hands he
must have had [I need to wear his wedding ring – that other
woman’s - on my thumb] and if he maybe put his in mine
like fathers do, watched him work on a Chevy, handing down
tools probably barked for if I only ever knew as much then as
I do now about cars, saw him going off to work at school
teaching other young boys he will obviously have known
better than me how to tune an engine or smooth out a scar,
observed the patterns
for my job exploring the mechanics of
words, finding some point where I begin - and listened to
the
dreams he must have had, bigger than me, talked about love
I wouldn’t understand then and still don’t today: something
shared, though as a ladies’ man he spread his much too thin?
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