High on the top shelf of my closet
along with scrapbooks and yearbooks
is my father’s helmet. Six stars remain
on the confederate flag sticker weathered
by rain. I remember staring at all the stars
for days on our way to Naples beach.
I was eleven years old and Nixon was
president. I sat on a small cushion bolted
to the back fender of his Harley Davidson.
We rode within the rumble of mufflers,
long beards and flashes of chrome.
His friends called me “Clickie”.
They knew my father as “Click”.
That was the sound his camera made
when he snapped pictures of motorcycles,
bonfires, drunken men and naked women.
They called me that on the day they
knocked at our door with the helmet.
Part of the sticker was missing.
They never mentioned his real name,
they said his pictures were legends.
I held the scratched up helmet by the strap
as my father did, and locked the door.
That was the last click they heard.
DQ 01/21/07
