Dad

I'm age five
on Castleman Drive.

We're late to Ben's soccer game
and dad shuts the door
- before grabbing the car keys.

No time to waste,
he punches
his fist bulging
the glass door in full
and pulls
his knuckles
cut with blood.

I can't help but consider,
"Mom will pull up right here
in less than an hour."

But dad was preoccupied
to find whatever bides him
the most time.

I look at him
and imagine
my dad as Clark Kent.