my father the painter

my father the painter, with head
held higher than most other mans head
and a prickly mustache that scratched my cheeks
with kisses, always knew what everyone's thoughts were.
he made jokes like i make jokes
and he stretched out his long arms with each paint brush stroke
yawning in the sun.
i remember how big his hands were, i know my hand fit inside
so small, and that's how i will always feel.
my father the painter with splattered jeans and
beer in the fridge.