My Father Carried a Black Lunch Bucket

Even now, a half-century past and more,
my father at rest four decades now,
sometimes I still see him, striding
down that Vancouver sidewalk,
lunch bucket swinging in one hand,
the other a counterbalance,
his long stride in my five-year old eyes
that of a mythic hero come home
to me each day; and when I waved
excited recognition as he touched
the far end of my vision,
after he’d stepped down
from the streetcar that bore him
home from the shipyards where
he worked he’d pace up East Broadway,
growing immense until he loomed
before me and set down
the metal bucket, his name
nail-etched with pride
in the black enamel, snatch me up
and crush me to him with his love,
his voice mouthing my name,
his huge arms holding me,
a thrill enough to make me wait
each workday eve at the front walk
for my first glimpse.
Even now, each time I see him,
no matter when, my father
still swings his black lunch bucket.