My dad, her pops

My dad eats plain white yogurt from a glass jar;

the spoon clanks as he scrapes the side.

He urges me to try it,

as if I have never tasted it before

and he is letting me in on a great secret.

I do.

It is good.

I do not tell him that I already knew.

He dries his clothes on a clothes line

inside his apartment.

His socks are hanging

pinned up one by one

along side his underwear

so neatly.

They feel crunchy

and smell fresh.

He walks every night,

at least three miles.

In good weather,

he bikes nine miles to work

and nine miles back.

His bicycle has a light,

I like this fact.

He bought a 1999 BMW Sportster.

I like this too.

It made me giddy because
 he never has fun with his hard earned money.

He works hard,

rarely buys for himself,

and gives to all of us instead.

He has lived all over the world:

Now Germany,

before France,

Venezuela,

Oklahoma,

the Czech Republic,

next Asia,

then the middle-East.

He, a world traveler,

my dad, once a young boy

from the foot-hills of West Virginia.

He comes home once every two months,

sometimes more,

sometimes less.

Never enough.

When he comes home he does projects for me.

He always tells me to think about what I need him to do.

I always have a list prioritizing the tasks from

the most important to the least.

He is brave and nothing intimidates him,

not the world,

not my lists.

We miss him;

I miss him.