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 seduce 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