My father clears his throat
and crosses his legs.
The wrinkles on his forehead pointed down
Only noise from his newspaper pages.
Still he doesn’t hear me ask to pass the bread
Sometimes he talks to himself
like I’m not in the next room
I put my plate in the bottom of the sink
and leave the house alone with him
When I get home he’ll be tossing
in his sleep,
the only place where he has to see
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