2 AM. He’s awake.

Don’t need the walker hell no.

My brother catches him mid-fall.

For Dad, it’s sunup. No matter we show him

the pitch dark outside, the clocks, our phones,

the 4 watches he’s placed in a perfect row

on the kitchen table. Finally, he has enough

of us and our so-called truth.

You believe what you believe. I believe

what I believe. That shuts us up all right.

We make coffee. Camp out in the den,

let the always-day of TV take over.

One episode after another of American Pickers.

Mike and Frank, who take road trips and

bargain for “rusty gold” in the wilds of rural America

and sometimes cities, too. Lord, the stuff they find!

The crazy-as-a-fox backwoods folk they meet!

There’s Lester the Taxidermist

with his stuffed miniature horse. Big Bear

and his World War 2 Samurai sword.

There’s Goat Man and Mole Man and Hobo Jack.

Backyard shacks where Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots

lurk. Planet of the Apes lunchbox, pristine.

An honest to God dinosaur bone. Not to mention

a 10-foot fiberglass cowboy boot.

Teepee that belonged to Iron Eyes Cody,

the “Crying Indian” from those early ’70s

anti-littering commercials. Truth be told

he was a Louisiana boy with Italian roots.

His tear was glycerin. (I googled him.)