Detail of Father and Son

“It’s the little details that make it,”
my father and I agree,
as we talk art and poetry down the freeway.
Dad talks about his new watered-down blue-green painting technique,
something that will bring the painting off
yet nobody will notice
the trick of it,
and as he talks he looks ahead at traffic and sky,
envisioning paint and water blending to his new color.

I sit in the passenger seat,
and dad, my old man,
I notice
you like a hawk,
cuz I’m turning into you.

When I was young I was exasperated
when each year you had two and only two things
on your Christmas list:
socks and underwear.
To my dismay, I unwittingly added underwear to my Christmas list this year,
in a few more years I’ll enjoy receiving
oh boy
socks.

I inherited your height
and when I bump my head I’m horrified,
not about finding blood,
but that I reflexively check for blood the
exact
same
way
you do,
applying open palm to the forehead
and then examining my hand for red spots,
one of your many nuances
that are becoming mine.

I inherited your blood,
a secret mixture nobody notices,
bringing me to a height where I see
we got something good going down this freeway,
a simple father who paints,
and his simple son, who writes poems.