My father fixed my broken chair
with a single shot of vodka,
built a bicycle from cigarette butts,
a couch from shattered bricks.
He sewed teddy bears from snow,
cobbled shoes from chicken soup,
tailored dust into sweaters,
trained my socks to sing like canaries.
He planted bent, rusty nails
that grew into succulent tomatoes,
taught his shoes to cook dinner
while he poured me a glass of smoke.
As he lay dying, he promised
he’d turn his corpse into my bed.