at the breakfast table
with my father

the brittle bruised skin
of his arms

branded ninety years
by the sun

worn hands folded
as he watches the news

nearly deaf
to the engineered fumes

turning - his flickering
eyes fasten on mine

who does he see

the fevered child
in a burning bed

the graying mirror
the daydreaming kid

returning the gaze
of a closedmouth man

who works and worked
and still pulls his weight

who holds me still
in his awkward

embrace