it's late
and the first thing i hear is the clock's bell
ringing for each hour like a stab wound
smelling like salt and New York Harbor
as if i were a navyman like him
but silence washes over the room in a wave
and in its undertow the sands of my father are left behind

if my father was a poet he'd love all the white space
his room is a short poem, then--
an archipelago, each island
a monolith:

near the navy clock (born from saltwater and teenage dreams)
a dresser that could tell stories of wooden teeth and Blackbeard

then another, even heavier and dripping
with ancient handiwork--Marie Antoinette ate cake off it

a tv crowns it, almost aggressively
simple, burying history under Technicolor

a rug kneels in front of Marie & her crown
geometric paradise in brown and white

emptiness otherwise, just white walls (comfortably clinical)
and no extra space used (except for the bed--
large, a remnant of divorce)

and then, once again, i smell the sea
as the clock strikes something

or maybe something-thirty