十月。在这阴湿，陌生的厨房里
我端详父亲那张拘谨的年轻人的脸。
他腼腆地咧开嘴笑，一只手拎着一串
多刺的金鲈，另一只手
是一瓶嘉士伯啤酒。

穿着牛仔裤和粗棉布衬衫，他靠在
1934年的福特车的前挡泥板上。
他想给子孙摆出一副粗率而健壮的模样，
耳朵上歪着一顶旧帽子。
整整一生父亲都想要敢作敢为。

但眼睛出卖了他，还有他的手
松垮地拎着那串死鲈
和那瓶啤酒。父亲，我爱你，
但我怎么能说谢谢你？我也同样管不住我的酒，
甚至不知道到哪里去钓鱼。

October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen
I study my father's embarrassed young man's face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string
of spiny yellow perch, in the other
a bottle of Carlsbad Beer.

In jeans and denim shirt, he leans
against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.
He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity,
Wear his old hat cocked over his ear.
All his life my father wanted to be bold.

But the eyes give him away, and the hands
that limply offer the string of dead perch
and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you,
yet how can I say thank you, I who can't hold my liquor either,
and don't even know the places to fish?