My father’s hand moves so slowly when he writes
fingers clutched tight around his pen the tip as hard as
a flickering faith
a determination to make seconds count
I know now, like all good tales
they don’t get told. They flow from his fingers to my pen tip.
I was planted under neglect
Is it neglect? or a motion to adjourn from a carved and pressed solitude, a greatness of silence?
Tell me about your mistakes. Why you are gentler with some pains than others why I also start to rank them
I am you, now, would it shock you to know?
Every time I want to ask you to be better, we joke about the Party being game over.
You still smile. Small deals are worth smiling for.
That’s all we have left, because big deals are farther and fewer in between.
This bank of happiness never ages, nor does it pay with interest.