The Stand-In

He leaves the Tupperware on the porch.

"Eat this," the note says,

written in the hand of a man

who spent forty years holding a wrench.

I’m thirty and I still don't know

where the gas shut-off is.

He’s the one who crawls into the cellar

to find the pilot light when the house goes cold.

He isn't my father.

But I find myself looking for his truck

when the wind starts to rattle the glass.

His gloves are still on the dryer,

fingers curled like they’re waiting

to catch whatever I drop next.