Pineapples
by Jessica Gallo
I remember the pineapples on his shirt.
From the back seat
they seemed bright in the dim car.
I remember the yellow line flashing by
and the road work.
I avoided eye contact in the mirror
while he joked.
Something about a tin can
and a boy.
Father had a way of joking
only when he had nothing else to say.
His pineapples,
they did not match his smile.