before he left his father's house for the last time,
he went to the kitchen where gray winter light
filled the room through a single window

he leaned over the table and smoothed his fingertips
along the wood, attempting to ****** from the soft,
sentimental pine all of the names, the numbers, that

had graced its' face, those who had drawn his
father's attention, if only for the moment, and for
a while he searched for his own name until suddenly

he withdrew his hand as if scorched, realizing some
things are better left unknown