A series of rough drafts written on Sundays
I came across an image
trapped inside my phone.
They all stand tall in the gray afternoon,
hats pushed back.
They rest their forearms on the bed
of the white pickup truck
and interlace their fingers.
cut from the same cloth
and held in the same posture.
Immortalized in the midst of
the talk that follows work.
I took the picture furtively from the dining room,
so it is mostly
blinds and mesh.
But the next time my mother asks
what I expect or desire,
I will tell her, “a man like that.”