My fathers, there are three of them;

they put on coats

every morning but Friday,

they are fools in slack pants, jeans.

They put on their charcoal coats

the color of campfire,

holy fools in slacks and jeans,

their hands withered, drowsy, tired.

They become charcoal

each year more dried,

flames lick hands so soft,

curling inward for the night.

My fathers are shriveled more

each year, more salt and pepper hair

on hands enflamed and withered old.

They dance inside their lair.

More salt on the potato, on the hair.

With nerves alight, on fire,

they dance inside their lair,

my fathers, walking a tight rope wire

in graying coats and jeans.