The Old Man

(I was doodling one afternoon after the death of my stepfather and thought about a moment we shared together during the old TV sitcom Gunsmoke.)

The Old Man looked up at me

He waved for me to come closer

Translucent fingers like discarded shrimp

No longer the cocky seventeen-year-old

Parachuting into the Philippines

Or the quiet man that talked my mother into saying

I do

I leaned down

Ear close to cracked lips

As he tried to draw a breath from somewhere in his lungs

That had been ravaged by fifty years of chain-smoking

Luckies

LS/MFT

Lucky Strikes Mean Fine Tobacco

Loose Straps Mean Floppy Ta-tas

Let’s Screw My Finger’s Tired

The Old Man’s words gurgled in his throat

Then surfaced in a soft whisper

“Matt shot first.”

Huge smile

at my awkwardness

Still throwing curves

No softballs

I look deep into those dying eyes and see a reflection

Dad and son

Sitting together watching the tube

Waiting for Marshall Dillon

The scene opens

The thunder of kettle drums

Matt stalks out on the street

Dad and son stand and face each other

In their best gunfighter poses

When the music crescendos

Four plow-handle hands

Faster than light

Draw and throw lead

Father and son

Always won

Matt and the man in black

Never had a chance

I smile back

Lean in close and whisper…