"Hands."
"My father was another story.
Red meat, walked around in a silver dome
of air, hard and specialized, the better to carve and devour.
He liked his scotch on the rocks and various cigarette brands,
didn't matter which.
Golfing in those green pants and terrified
of heights, which should have made me soften.
A memory of him fiddling with the knob of the car radio
and another of his gold pinkie ring on the banister.
Each of which involve large hands, a neat crop of hair
pressed into every blessed knuckle."