My father is a lobsterman.

This grandfather town wrinkles
my shirts and dreams,
with it's 'everyone should be a lobsterman'
mentality.
How can I come out
of the closet and tell my father that Ohio whispers
my name in the night,
or that I prefer the taste of milk
to beer.

Every early violet morning,
he stuffs his size 11 feet
into rubber boots, tucks a soft pack of Winston's
into his shirt pocket, and sifts himself out
the screendoor into the day.
This place can cry
with the best of them,
but my father is blind

to pity and sentimentality. His skin is made
of things I'm not, strong lasting materials:
like the chains people put on
their tires in winter or the burn
mother got from the stove last night.