Poetry |

“Bad Hobby”

Bad Hobby

 

 

From his pocket, my dad pulls

A roll of wooden toothpicks

Bound with a rubber band.

 

We’re driving to the V.A.

To have his toenails trimmed,

As we do every three months,

 

“A standing appointment,”

I used to say to him,

But he no longer gets the joke,

 

Asking only why I can’t

Do it myself. And why won’t I?

I’ve catheterized him,

 

Twice, but can’t bring myself

To tend his feet, so like mine,

Wide with high arches —

 

Ballerina feet, my mom

Called them, none of us dancers.

Now that he’s lived with me

 

For almost as long as he lived

With her, I’m beginning

To look like mom — pissed.

 

The podiatry techs are always good-

Natured, thanking dad for his service,

Raising their voices when

 

I remind them he can’t hear.

The big toenail on his left foot

Looks to be made of horse hoof.

 

They cut and file but never

Hurt him. Some vets smoke outside

The building, waiting on rides.

 

“Don’t ever smoke, Kath,”

Dad says, “it’s a bad hobby,”

Scrambling his words, forgetting

 

Our ages and both our pasts.

The toothpicks he saves and reuses,

Even when broken, he calls

 

“A bad hobby.” And the drinking

He once was well enough to do.

Vets here age out at Korea;

 

Most are Vietnam, Gulf, Iraq,

Afghanistan. Without a draft,

Many of us soon won’t know any

 

Personally, only the poorest of us

Serving. Like sports, the art of war

Holds little interest for me,

 

Though both are everywhere on

Display and, in theory, I get it:

Offense, defense, spectacle,

 

Competition. The Renaissance

Painter, Uccello, was commissioned

By a nobleman to paint the famous

 

Triptych of the Battle of San Romano,

A skirmish really, between

City-states, fought by mercenaries.

 

More than the birds he was

Nicknamed after, he loved linear

Perspective, using mathematics

 

To create a three-dimensional

Effect. The work hangs

In three European countries now,

 

In keeping with its divisive history,

And is considered Uccello’s

Masterpiece. Painted with egg

 

Tempera on poplar, it reminds me

Of the tarot, with its broken staves,

Like toothpicks, and sexy horses.

 

The gold leaf’s intact

On the bridles, but the silver

Of the soldiers’ armor has oxidized,

 

Darkening to ghostly shades.

My mother’s hobby was painting,

Is how I know.

 

Uccello’s daughter, a Carmelite

Nun, was described by Vasari

As “a daughter who knew how to

 

Draw.” None of her work survives.

Hobby derives from a Latin

Diminutive for horse, from which

 

We get hobbyhorse, as in one man’s

Sport, another man’s war.

On the other hand, habit

 

Is defined as a sustained

Appearance or condition, from habeo,

Meaning “I have, hold, keep.” Known,

 

In some cases, as hard to break

Or more useful broken:

A spirit, a promise, a horse.

Contributor
Kathy Fagan

Kathy Fagan’s fifth book is Sycamore (Milkweed, 2017), a finalist for the 2018 Kingsley Tufts Award. She has received fellowships from the NEA, the Ingram Merrill and the Ohio Arts Council. Recent work has appeared in Poetry, Tin House and The Nation. Fagan directs the MFA Program at Ohio State in Columbus, Ohio, where she also serves as series co-editor for the OSU Press/Wheeler Poetry Prize.

 

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