Who left his pair of genuine-leather holsters,
Tooled for cowboy cap weapons, exterior within the rain?
A query my father needed to cope with one morning
Some seventy summers in the past in Missouri.
He stood within the driveway, late for the workplace,
Seersucker jacket over one arm,
And weighed his choices.
Should he consider my brother, eight and a half,
Who claimed that the ruined holsters have been mine,
That his was the pair safely stowed inside,
Or ought to he consider me, seven,
Who claimed the other simply as loudly?
A peacemaker by nature, not a choose, my father
Might have reached a choice as clever as Solomon’s
If he’d had extra time to ponder his choices.
He should have seen, too late, that reducing the nice pair
In two together with his pocket knife didn’t remedy the issue.
Long after he’d pushed off, my brother and I
Stood within the driveway, disconsolate.
Of course, my brother cried extra bitterly,
Having informed the reality and been made to observe
His favourite present being dismembered,
And by Dad, his nice protector.
If this was the sort of equity out there
Inside the household, what might he hope for
From the world exterior? As for me, the liar,
I used to be crying too, primarily from shock
That my father’s knowledge had lastly faltered.
I might idiot him, it appeared, if I attempted.
I didn’t have to be good to prosper.
The good man I used to be meant to grow to be
Was solely an choice in a sea of choices.
Maybe subsequent time I might trick anyone
Into giving me not merely half
Of what wasn’t mine, however all.
What a weight to fall on me out of nowhere:
The job of asking myself from that day on
What I actually wished.