the phone call

your father can't help
himself. he's a joke machine.
what do you call a blonde
standing on her head,
he says over the phone,
but he can't stand the three
second pause by you before
answering it himself
and laughing
with a loud cough into
the other end of the line.
a brunette, he says.
you hear the snap of his
bic lighter, firing up
another cigarette.
so, what's new he says?
how's your love life,
work. how about them
cowboys this year.
the conversation rarely
varies from this set
pattern. it's friendly
and light, and non invasive.
talk of tomatoes in his
garden, a book you sent
him. how much it rained
or didn't rain. you talk
warmly for twenty
minutes until you begin
to hear him fade and feel
cornered with nothing
left to say, so he clears
his throat and says, hey,
i got one more for you.
okay, shoot, you tell him.
and he says, a tree fell
in the forest but no one
heard it, because someone's
wife kept talking.
you laugh despite having
heard it before from him.
you make your laugh new and
fresh, thankful for all
that he has done, despite
how small that is.