but I watched him,
paid close attention
to the movement of his large
clean hands, hairy, long-fingered,
nails clipped straight, the left one
on the dinner table, its energy
barely contained
in a relentless rocking
back and forth, back and forth,
or as it brought coins or stamps
from his collections
to the right hand that held
the magnifying glass.
I was interested
that he was interested
in almost everything
that came before his eyes;
trees, rocks, political theories,
the conversion of sap
to maple syrup, curiosity shops
of Beijing, Beirut, Berlin,
and in anyone he thought
could teach him something,
but not particularly
in the lives
of his son and daughter,
unless we failed to pass
the butter, fought in his presence,
weren’t ready for church
or dinner in time, he didn’t
focus his attention
in our direction.
When he was at home
our mother had primacy;
only she could draw him away
from his books, his collections,
gain his complete regard.
Respect for his partner;
for us, preoccupied but
usually benign detachment:
not a bad model over all.