Dancing at Lake Montebello. Lynne Viti

      I dreamed my father was the ocean —

      salt water lapping, reclaiming the beaches —

      or he was Poseidon, with his trident, ruling the seas.

      Only my father didn’t rule the water.

      The salt waters of the bay and the booze

      conspired to push the boat on which he dozed,

      sunburned, sated with whiskey. He was slammed

      against the pilings of a small bridge. He never

      walked right again. His football days were long

      over. Now he couldn’t show me

      how to run for yardage after catching the pass.

      He couldn’t drive a standard because his ankle

      screamed when he depressed the clutch.

      From then on it was automatic Chevys for him,