Thank God for the Gold Rush
my dad would say after chomping
into the sinking bottom heavy fullness
of a pear, rubbing
the grain along his teeth.
You know those 49ers had pear trees
to plan or maybe exchange for other gold and though
we’d never ever traveled west he just wanted
everyone to have what he did, slurping
those pears’ gritty juice the way Mom
always told me not to drink my milk. And so
she called him Bartlett.
Sometimes she would walk right by him
and she would say it’s a good thing he loves
the shape he married.