I wish this thing was as easy as an E string breaking,

a new one getting found.

The sweetest sound comes after you push your string into the bridge,

curl it around the post, twist it,

and turn the tuning key back and forth,

strumming, then listening, then back and forth,

more strumming until

the sound throughout the house is right

and everything and everyone is in tune again.

How to Write a Song for My Daddy

The first time I remember

you calling me little man,

I was real little. You said

Yeah, I know your name is Zachariah Jr.

But to me, as long as I live, you’ll always be my little man.

The first time I said

Daddy, that sounds like a song,

you told me to go write one for you.

But I didn’t know the first thing

about how to make a song.

Look it up, little man, you said. You know how to read.

And so I did. And I found out how to put parts together.

There’s usually a chorus—some words

repeating themselves

over and over again.

And maybe the chorus to this song is Little man . . .

Little man,

little man,

as long as I live,

even if you get taller than me,

you’ll always be

my little man.

Used to Be

Used to be that my mom would make

these little lemon cakes that looked

like tiny loaves of bread. And me and my boys would each get our own

and a glass of milk.

The glasses had football teams on them.

Giants. Jets. Packers. Steelers. Seahawks. Raiders. Broncos. Bears. Even the 49ers.

Even the Patriots.

Used to be ten of those glasses. And four of us friends.

So we always had our choice.

Used to be the Patriots and 49ers never got chosen

by any of us.

Used to make us laugh.

Used to be that we’d all sit in the kitchen and talk

about stuff like why

we didn’t like the Patriots but loved the Giants.

And on days when my dad was home, he’d come in,

grab the 49ers or Patriots glass and fill it with milk.

Stare us down while he gulped it.

Used to be he’d always burp real loud, then say

Now, that’s the best milk I ever tasted.

Grow and know, he’d say. Grow and know.

Used to be we’d laugh and defend our own glasses,

argue about what teams were trash

and what teams weren’t.

Used to be we agreed on one thing, though:

My dad’s team was the best in the NFL and my dad

was the best tight end any of us had ever known.

Used to be we’d recite his stats over and over,

the four of us just sitting at the table

with my mom’s cake in our bellies

and our football glasses getting empty. My boys around me