Six Servings Per Can

Three scents will always remind 
me of my father: the Permatex I could find


sitting in a puddle of soap scum 
at the shop, the wood shavings from


his circular saw, and the salted maybe-ham  
that the world knows as SPAM.  


On Sunday mornings, he would tie 
his apron and sing Sinatra while 


frying Something Posing as Meat. 
He never gave up trying to feed 


our poor mother’s cabinet doors 
as he plopped it on the cutting board. 


We huddled together behind 
the sofa, for once putting aside 


our GI Joe and Barbie woes 
to hide from our father’s spoils.


With a mouth full, he called it a luxury 
and ignored our gagging pleas 


as the smell of salted meat 
seeped into our meal  


of pilfered peanut butter 
and Saltine crackers.