Wrestling My Father

The scent of gasoline and lanoline lingers
mingled with sweat and Old Spice, menthol
Winston’s from back before you gave them up

for good persist in half-life beneath Vitalis
sheen and Listerine, waves of Bengay radiating
off red hot coals of trapezius muscles seized

inside a white V neck tee from Monkey Wards,
thin cotton canvas worked with small fevered hands,
greedy, slathering claim, leaving myself open to

reversal and the pin, sting of ancient rug burn
still gracing my cheek, palms pressed to face inhaling
what little I can of you by lung full.