under the shady tree

if my father
wasn't drunk, he was sleeping
or in a rush
to get out
of the house to a side
job, or a side woman,
or something
or somewhere to where he didn't
have to be around
seven children
and a wife
needing him to hammer
a nail.
maybe he had to wash
and wax
his turquoise impala
Chevrolet
again, out in the sunshine,
or under a shady tree
with his white t shirt
on his muscled chest,
a cigarette
dangling
from his lips. his blue
eyes catching a glimpse
and winking at any
girl who happened by.