Another fall dusk and I was out
  with my son to pick up
the fallen walnuts, holding them to
  his nose and
my nose to draw the bitterness in,
smearing the brown stain on our hands
when I remembered the yellow-brown whorls
  of my father’s fingertips
those nights on Olmstead Street as he
  poured coins
onto the glittering table, the cigarette
  smoke turning
his pock-marked face blue, covering his
  eyes with clouds
I could not see through. I wrapped
  peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches at the white counter,
  folded the waxed paper
in neat triangles the way he had taught me,
  then dropped them
into the brown bag gently for the long day
  of flash cards