my father said
five bucks
will get us to the shore
in time to drop our names
in the hat
where they pull
a million dollar winner
each month.

when i was 12
i took him up on it.
we drove
straight thru dawn,
talked how fathers and sons
must some day,
the one where he listens
to everything i know -

how the world was candy
and i had the teeth
to prove it.
how clouds
over the Whitman bridge
were Abe Lincoln
watching with an honest eye.

near the boardwalk,
i talked with my mouth full,
told him what i knew about girls,
promised life got better
as you grew younger,
had the waitress bring him
a cup of cocoa
to cheer him up.

we didn’t win a thing that day
but came home
with enough gas
to reach Lake Winona
where i corrected his release,
taught him the right grip
to get two more skips
from his stones.

The fires never last long.
I sit in the window all day,
on the thirty-third floor
where the jets buzz by, trees
with white beard clouds.

The alarms fast and loud,
stations make quick work,
nothing lasts long enough
for the thrill.

Still it impresses guests
who like me
for my view, swear
they can’t see fires
from their rooms.

“Don’t you care?”
And I don’t.

“There’s been four today,”
I say.
When they’re gone
I pull the shades,
stare at the wall
no one likes,
the one painted red
that glows all night.