The Ol’ Man

Until it was stenciled by snow at midnight,
I hadn’t noticed the statue on Washington street.
It’s twelve feet tall. A cowboy and his lasso.
The lasso, frozen just at the edge of its strike,
curling above his head like a cobra rising from a basket
is a strange image in the west.
The man’s body is as twisted as his line. The lucky man.
Nobody will have to see him grow old. He’ll be remembered
as twisted and fierce. Hard and quiet. Cold. Solid. Cool.
I’m falling in love with my father at midnight in the snow,
staring slack-jawed, awed, at my purest toddler memory of him.
I’m falling deeper in love with my son at midnight,
and falling in love with his toddler vision of me.
Until it was stenciled by snow I hadn’t noticed.

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