Ties Poem by Michael Chitwood

Uncles worked pocket knives
to rake the grease of work
from beneath their nails,
but yours, in the Sunday mirror
and quick at my throat,
were always clean.
Over, under, down through.
'The print or stripe should match the blue.'
Sundays only
Granddad wore one.
Saturdays only
you did not.
Over, under, down through.
'You can judge a man by the shine on his shoes.'
Granddad's hung
on the back of the bedroom door,
knotted all week.
Before services,
he'd cinch it and grin,
proud his boy felt this pinch
every working day.
My back against your chest,
you talked me into the knot,
over, under, down through.
Then you'd snug it
just short of choking
and call me 'Mr. Chitwood,'
the name you dressed in
every morning to leave the house.