i don't think up comebacks anymore

i guess

it was a somewhat endearing moment

not

like its new

the laughing chorus

you can clock me at 

2-3 per week

times 52 reps a year

times 25 year career

hmmm

2600-3900

professionally speaking

it adds up

but in some ways

it's always my first

step

on the elevator with my father 

they wait

the Goonies with juice-stained lips

and shorts their mother laid out for them

that morning

with chocolate milk and race car 

tough guy dreams

still crying 

over skinned knees

tattooed with bruises and

youth

like i remember my knees

hard-working

with the curve in my back

turned toward them

they are two

until 

the lift stops at 2 

levels

and another

floor

as more

file in

the box on pulley answering

to buttons

smeared with sticky soccer hands

i can't hear my father over

freckles and front teeth 

still coming in 

big and white

entitled front row spot

in smile

or cackle

or sneers

steered

from the company of ascot's little men afraid of what goes bump in the night

where their bell tower popcorn 

etches my hump, in spite of the fact

that i don't always have my cloak of night shadow

armor 

from these

not yet successful covert

operators still learning 

to tie tight their 

sneakers, snickers

behind me

telling me to answer my father louder

or ask a question

about the weather

or jesus

or his band

or his beard

greying hopefully

enough to muffle what he might not have observed 

on this elevator

yet

doors open

stepping onto carpeted room with my father

and a trailed off conversation

encasing the several i've had 

with children who squealed audibly scattered 

amongst

adults who watch reality

t.v. telling

snot wiping sleeves to 'watch your mouth' and 'mind

your manners'

but the only one i trust

is slow step

slow step

hunched over

walker click 

shifting hip

bones

in front of me 

who saves his foul mouth

for the bedroom

like me