The fact is that my father raised a pedant

trained to spot the cigarette-shaped space

between the starlet’s fingers

her dress of many colors

the weather behind her changing between close ups.

But even before we toured his black-and-white rooms

I loved my stuffed lamb till it was dingy gray

and he grew so afraid I’d lose it

that he bought me a new one as a backup.

He can’t have been shocked

when it stayed lifeless in my hands.

Everyone knows love doesn’t work like that.

Love works like the green jacket I’m wearing

which he bought me, for once, on impulse

along with the boots I’d walk away from him in.

I’ve had this new transitional object for a decade

and every so often he offers me a new one.

One day, I’ll need one

but he won’t be here to buy it for me.