Throwing Dice

the screen door closes with a rattle like a man trying to throw Yahtzee despite the odds shortly after, the familiar footfall of my father calling ‘Baba boy, baba boy’ to me on the porch I life my mug in reply, filled with hot coffee, he fills the watering can with cold water a low breeze rustles the fronds of a palm tree father pours water on transplanted roots. it grows here despite the odds