My Father as Ulysses

photo by Oleg Ri

He cannot rest from travel. He will drain
his life in miles. He craves work, suffers
work with those who become the debris caked
in their lungs. When home, he only sits and
stares at the dark, sweeping sea of highways.

On the job, he becomes a city of wire
managed by a clotted heart, motels,
and telephone repairs. Even as his
ability streaks lines of age across
his cheek and belly, he remains to move.
Forever he moves. How dull his tires.

Yet, this is nothing to note. No twinkle
of lights or baritone voices, just long
days of sunrises until the earth fades.
Not now, nor ever, was he the hero.
What he is, he is. Equal parts hunger,
hubris, guilt, and a hernia pulled
on the road that does not want him returned.