-developments-

so my father was a salesman on the road.

It could be said it was his calling.

he could sell a bill of goods with one glad hand

while the other held tight to his ledger.

"You'll need 40 cases, Ron".
 (Ron went through 38 cases
 with an hour to go 'till closing.)

at the supper table

he was usually quiet and cool-headed.

at Sunday Mass he’d spend

his requisite hour seemingly unimpressed.

driving family to the beach,

to the amusement park or

standing at the fence near the backstop

with his old buddies watching

the little league games,

his attitude was smooth, unassuming and alluring.

they told me
I'm a chip off the old block.
just like the ol'man, they'd say.

from his hospital bed
long after visitors
walked away
to attend to their lives,

with whatever his thoughts,

in the cold-

blue of fluorescence,
with the sounds that rubber

wheels make on linoleum in the quiet night,

with the sounds of the implements in metal

and with the muted

voices of young women
nursing the third shift
wafting in from the corridor

he’d lie in wait for daylight,— waiting

for the angel cloaked in black to show-up,

readying himself to make the sale of his life.
it could be said
it was his calling.