"who killed cock robin"?

I wouldn’t refer to my father

as a man of the sea
although substantial evidence
of his sales-route from Fall River
to Buzzards Bay and points east
has been routinely introduced,

nor a man of the cloth
notwithstanding the road-weary
ensemble of trench-coat and fedora.

he wasn't one who possessed
the sleight-of-hand necessary to change

the properties of water to wine
although an opportunity once presented itself
during the testimonial's pasta course.

but he dealt adroitly

with glad-handed money-changers

who gave him cash after signing his name
across the bottom line on the form of their choosing

until such time as in the past-due note,

whereupon they sucked for his blood

on the first of every month.

the guy behind the cluttered counter at the corner store

didn’t have to learn the curriculum of the hard-sell,
nor did my father, 

nor did his eldest son who’d fetch
packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes
when the oder came down from on high at the kitchen table.