Still l get my dad’s
magazine long after
he’s dead. I don’t
tell them. I like
getting it. Seeing
what people like
my dad look like
nowadays. Working

class. Working
     steel. When you
          handle burning
               steel every day,
          you’re gonna
     get burned. It’s
a question of

time and how
many times. And
how much. I run

my finger down
     the list on the back,
          the one’s killed
     at work this
year. It was never
     you, Dad, though
          my kid
     visions flashed
with your fiery

death. Never you,
               but for so many.
     How many? I
count them each
               issue. I count them
     each year on the back
of your magazine, Dad,
because you knew that,
     like so much of sacrifice,
               it all runs together
     after a while. Into
the ashes as it were.