The lamp glow settles on my father, etched
in browns and grays. He exhales, a nicotine
taint, and glances around.
He looks up, scratches his face, looks
down, closes the book. He leans back
and spills shadows up the wall, the oak
chair whining. He notices me.
I lay, PJed. Settled restless creature
under flannel. My face not quite eclipsed, I sneak
peeks back, encased in childhood.
Brendan's sprawled near, eyes shut too
tightly. A faker. He listens motionlessly. His favorite
hand-me-down bares midriff.
Mom sneaks yawns off on the couch. A dog-eared
Dean Koontz teepees her throat, rises and falls with slowing
sinking breath. Her blinks elongate
as Jay Leno fades to a dull white roar
the moment endures.
Four people, being. Static potential. A house aflame
with the intricate mundane.
Dad breaks it, stands. He leans over and
kisses me on the forehead. His beard makes me
kick out the willies, 's' sounds on sheets
cast in shade. He whispers “Goodnight” and
reaches for the lamp.
Darkness pours in with a click.
I hear him rustle his way out. Cars
whir outside. Headlights bathe his spine
as he sinks from the room.
I lay there, my thoughts enjambed,
justified around a four-walled world. House creaks
and groans coo me. They seduce roots that
ground me. Plant me at home years after the harvest.
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