Coke by Philip Dacey
I was proud of the Coca-Cola stitched in red
on the pocket of my dad's shirt,
just above his heart.
Coca-Cola was America
and my dad drove its truck.
I loved the way the letters curved,
like handwriting, something personal,
a friendly offer of a drink
to a man in need. Bring me your poor,
your thirsty.
And on every road I went, faces
under the sign of Coke smiled down
out of billboards at me. We were all
brothers and sisters in the family
of man, our bottles to our lips,
tipping our heads back to the sun.
My dad lifted me up when he came home,
his arms strong from stacking
case after case of Coke all day. A couple of
cold ones always waited for us in the kitchen.
I believed our President and my dad
were partners. My dad said someday Coke
would be sold in every country of the world,
and when that happened there would be
no more wars. "Who can imagine," he asked,
"two people fighting while they swig their Cokes?"
I couldn't. And each night before sleep,
I thanked God for my favorite drink.
When I did, I imagined him tilting the bottle
up to his heavenly lips, a little Coke
dribbling down his great white beard.
And sometimes I even thought of his
son on the cross, getting vinegar
but wanting Coke. I knew that if I
had been there, I would have handed a Coke
up to him, who would have figured out
how to take it, even though his hands
were nailed down good, because he was God.
And I would have said when he took it,
"That's from America, Jesus. I hope you
like it." And then I'd have watched,
amidst the thunder and lightening
on that terrible hill, Jesus' Adam's apple
bob up and down as he drained the bottle
in one long divine swallow
like a sweaty player at a sandlot game
between innings, the crucial ninth
coming up next.
And then the dark, sweet flood
of American sleep
sticky and full of tiny bubbles,
would pour over me.
