You'd expect a pack of smokes to be rolled
up on that tough-guy shoulder as he leans
on the bike, leather jacket open, jeans
folded high at the cuffs, Harley cap pulled
back. But even then there was something that
belied the facade; something in that white-
toothed smile, surprisingly un-James Dean. Light
streaks over-exposed above his head.
You look at him now, playing at
wrestling with your boys, still muscle-bound,
still tough guy. Older, of course. You
look at mom through a flour-white haze, knowing
she's always been his only. Everything
condenses. Focal lengths change. Time
fades the photo, but he's still the same.
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