Antennas leaned ever so slightly
to the left or right of vertical.
A single tree in front.
Umbrella clothesline in the fenced backyard.
From a distance
we watched the fathers of our friends.
They came home from work
wearing tan or gray jumpsuits.
Almost all of them had been in the war.
Mr. Brooks with a metal plate
in his head that caused him to twitch.
On weekends they mended broken rakes
and baseball bats with friction tape.
They mounted Grandpa's worn scythe
on the garage wall.
Next to the unused bamboo surf rod
with the open-face reel
wound with cotton line.
They waited in the car outside the PTA meeting.
Buried family pets in the backyard
and cried into the graves.