After Bob Hicok

A wrench has always been
your favorite tool. Like Dad
I tend to try a hammer first,
which sounds like taking sides.
I used to think if you saw
his regret—his wrenching sobs
and how he clenched his fists—
it would fix your whole
relationship. In the myth
I built about you heading west,
I turned you into Icarus
though Isaac is more accurate.
I still believe Dad's remorse
was sincere but understand
I wasn't who he should've
shown it to. I envy how
your wrench can make things
run. My hammer can't
drive nails unless I hit them
straight. When you bring up
the past, I don't show you
the patience you deserve
because I hear Dad's voice,
see how I held his hand and hung
on every word. We both
were raised to take care
of our tools. I should've seen
sooner that I was being used
to mend his guilt for how
he'd broken you.

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Recently, Bob Hicok's astounding "Eulogy Owed" poems have inspired me to consider what I owe, to whom, and if I believe amends are possible. This piece is one of my answers.