I retained all of my father’s lessons.

They are packed in the back of

my mind, next to an old smoking habit

and memories of a former flame

who flickers with each passing day.

The lessons range from the useful

to the absurd. My father

taught me how to forge my path.

But he also taught me

to do it in a straitjacket rather than

a life jacket, knowing full well

the path would flood after each rain

and that he refused to teach me

how to swim during the summer

between the fourth and fifth grade:

these lessons, these lessons.

These boxes are all I have.

I don’t get any more teachable

moments. But I know

the best way to hit a curveball,

and I can evade ten people chasing me

in the middle of a Georgia swamp.

Who needs to know that?

I’m asking. Do you know of anyone?

I expected to teach such things

to a son or a daughter—

these lessons from my father,

these lessons from a father.

Nick Gaffney