From Eat Fast My father, who brought home good money from his job at the site, kept us well fed, told us to get desk jobs, urged us to study up, fattened, lost his mind slumped in blue TV light. Retired, he tried keeping bees, keeping chickens, growing tomatoes, collecting antique crocks. But in the end, he ate chips. His face placid, the light left his eyesirises, two blue tubes. He walked slow. His speech slurred. He'd shake your hand and say he loved you. But nothing, nothing held. There is something of the kernel of reminiscence in Kevin Rabas's work, a sense that for all its artfulness, the poems are the purest distillation of memory and feeling. At its heart, this collection pays homage not just to a particular feisty father, but to all fathers that we love in their peculiarities and imperfections. The writing is deft and observant, with an understated humor and warmth. At the same time, it is a celebration of 'the lick and needle of fire, song, ' that is, to the making of music.