The Father

THE FATHER

ten dollar knife cutting aluminum can
the kitchen light flickers, there is thunder
far off, slow rolling bloody knuckles
cicadas robot drone signalling the end of summer
counting patterns in the carpet
feeling sick over impending fifth grade
the world a length of have to’s
and better not’s, and worse, this summer
toys have lost their autopilot allure
my sister’s friends leave me hot faced
my brother called me a manchkin
the absurdity of my station weighs heavily
and does not exist when my father enters
smelling of factory, tobacco, office toil armpit and remnant cologne
the deep dark outside world that can swallow men whole
kept at bay once again, he is hungry, needs a shower
i am a burgeoning tuber he must water
move towards the light
he talks to me with tired eyes, an extra minute
and the universe hums in my bones
i don’t know why, but he makes my eyes water over
remembering the recurring dream where he has suddenly died
and there he is, exhausted, listening to me as he chews
don’t be in a hurry, all these people, you will be all of them
in time, all of them, he says without speaking
he asks about my day
and reminds me of things
something is pressing down on him, it’s in his eyes
and he enjoys protecting me from it
is in love with the smallness of my shoulders
the childishness of my concerns feed him
he is my champion, and he doesn’t know it
i don’t know it
until years later, watching my boy’s pale little chest
rising and falling as he sleeps, showered and fed