Hot Chocolate

That our father knew cocoa
seeped into our knowing
as quietly as sitting
on laps. The bow
at his back from a mother's
apron anchoring his spot
at the stove; the cocoa
yielding to his spoon
as to a sermon. And he
taught us cocoa: "Never stop
stirring" and "Add a dash
of salt": the first as easy
as wanting toys;
the second as hard
as grief. On my father's
eightieth birthday, my aunt
spoke of jobs divided when
our unknown grandfather
abandonned the family.
My father's job--cocoa. "Keep
stirring" and "Add a dash
of salt" learned with long
division and the necessity
of a bitter New England
winter milk route.
A few coins, endurance,
free bottles of milk.
Cocoa
never came so dear.