Maybe it was the peasant feet, my non-blue eyes, people saying I
was his spitting image.

Maybe it was My Lai, the cow college he went to, the Hunts
     unable to corner the silver market, the Watts riots, the burst
     eardrum that bounced him out of flight school.

Maybe it was my sister, the golf ball-sized hail the summer of
     ’68 in Wisconsin, the journal he never kept but meant to, War
     of the Worlds, me lying even when I told the truth.

Maybe it was how easy it was for him to be a real prick, maybe
     because he was more like his Army chaplain father than he
     wanted to believe.

Maybe it was the epilogue to Moby Dick, vodka martinis at 5 pm,
     how I always threw the hardball over his head during pitch
     and catch.

Maybe it was Patricia Neal and Paul Newman, Zane Grey,
     skipping two grades in grammar school, the lone bullet hole
     in a Schutzstaffel helmet.