Another dinner tainted
by moistly cooing feta
and cracking of crutons
in his mouth.

A wrinkle plunges
his forehead into lines
mimicking the knives
meticulously hidden above door frames.

He picks the scab
caught in his leg hair
and it dangles-trapped
as he gets to the screaming tea.

Birds dart out the window
and freeze in the sky
in the picture of Samford Hall
hanging above the white-washed mantle.

Cookie cake icing
reads, “Happy 68 Pops”
and we sing to fogged glasses
as his face quivers.