Let’s drink tea,
Dad. I worry about your health. I do not think you could give me your kidney
like you promised.
If we were medieval, you’d have a forge working late nights early mornings stumbling to sleep in the afternoon
and it all looks so romantic
until the shadows of tree branches grow over your face and
because we’re not medievalists and you’re just a man
downing coffee dregs.
Dad, you have depressed the couch. By which I mean to say, you have literally
left a depression in the couch.
You are the sleeping field mouse an artist wants to carve the likeness of into a hollow walnut.
By the time the kitchen exhaust fan is at work, maybe you are awake and driving
to the hardware store
and tonight, if I am the telescope, you are the ISS blowing past
me yelling “tally-ho”
saluting the stars with your cap but before the next galaxy, Dad,
let’s drink tea.