Taciturn Dads
June 22 2009


Fatherly love
is more like jazz
than mothers —
no two versions the same,
always partly improvised,
and to some
it all sounds like noise.

My dad
was a stand-up bass.
His voice could carry,
but you didn’t really notice.
He rarely soloed,
deferring to the flashy sax
the vamping diva, scatting alone.
And always there
playing back-up,
solid, reliable
setting the tone.

Dads were stoic, then.
They brought home a paycheque
never wore shorts
drove 4-door cars from Detroit.
They could seem overwhelmed
by fatherhood
as if it were more than they’d expected,
finding refuge
behind evening papers,
in a workshop basement
puttering.
And the first diaper he ever held
was a grandchild’s,
pinching it gingerly
wrinkling his nose.

The bass player drives a Cadillac,
the only trunk big enough
for his man-sized instrument.
His hands are strong
with sinewy wrists
deeply callused fingertips.
He wears a skinny suit, a narrow tie,
but when called upon
can really swing it.
Which catches us by surprise
every time
— the secret jazzman
hiding inside.

And the inner life
of a taciturn dad
who spent so long
on the road
away from home,
we could never really know him.