In the Dark
My father sat at the kitchen table smoking Marlboro’s,
his body seemed to fold in on itself in the chair.
In the chair, his body folded in on itself,
his eyes open toward the moonlit window.
In thought, he kept his eyes open toward the moonlight,
and his glasses caught reflected light.
Catching reflected light from the window,
he seemed to move, but only slightly.
When he moved even slightly
the chair creaked beneath him.
The creaking chair worried beneath him
as I watched from my bedroom door.
I watched from my bedroom door
not making any sounds, just watching.
Not making a sound, I watched,
wanting to ask him what he was thinking.
I wanted to ask him what he was thinking
as the cigarette in his hand glowed red.
My father’s cigarette glowed red
with each deep inhalation.
With each deeper inhale
the ashes grew longer and fell
The ashes grew longer and fell
onto the vinyl tablecloth.
On the vinyl tablecloth
his hand moved slowly across.
His hand moving slowly,
he brushed away the ashes.
He brushed away the ashes,
smoking alone in the dark kitchen.
Previously published in issue 118 of Poet Lore