Maybe You Remember

Maybe you remember
the drawings at breakfast:
a hippo yawning,
a spider dancing;

maybe you remember
the handful of coins
you tossed into a tollbooth
just before my sister arrived;

maybe you remember
the name of that runningback
you talked up in pre-season
who was later cut;

maybe you remember
hot pretzels on Sundays,
and the red-haired guy in the booth
waving to us;

maybe you remember
the complex machines you built,
and how you taught me
there is no such thing as cold,

or how you spoke so tenderly
to your mother in hospice,
and consoled me as I wept in the car
after a girl broke my heart;

maybe you remember
watching Nixon board the plane,
and me sitting beside you,
asking questions,

the rockstar leap you did
when your legs were good,
or your Popeye forearms
from decades of wrenching;

maybe you remember
my ‘67 Chevy Corvair,
the bittersweet medium paint,
the clog in the nozzle,

The Moody Blues
and Helen Reddy
and your favorite lyrics from
Take It To The Limit.

It’s ok if you don’t.
But I hope,
when I see you tomorrow,
you’ll remember my name.