I'm waiting for father to thank me
I did what he asked.
I'm waiting for him to tell me
what a good job I've done
what a good boy I am.

I'm waiting for father to sweep down
with open arms
and scoop me from my feet.
To laugh with me as he picks me up
high above his head.

I'm waiting for father to look at me
with the same eyes that he has
for the glass in his hand
and the amber liquid
that fills the hollowness of it's invisible walls.