Spacious, dark oak desk
holding a red pencil
in a brightly lit room.
Built by his splintered hands
and intelligent brain.
He is a carpenter.

Standing in wet sneakers on Conard Field,
smiling,
pointing his index finger
to where scrambling first-years should be.
He is a football coach.

In my blue-sheeted bed
he lies,
book in hand,
reading,
listening,
and falling asleep beside me.
He is my dad.