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My father waits at his table
                                        for my delivery
a carton of cigarettes, some booze
                                        to patch places of laceration
his health waning, piecemeal, like a trail of crumbs
       dismantled independence 
       the coldest solitude of age

he lifts the cigarette carton I bring, crashes it to the table
"I told you regular smokes, not King size!"

flawed purchase on my part, 
                                     catching his smoky torch of rage
my father, no longer a full self of goodness
                   his prostate cancer, a derailment
                   our scripts dysfunctional that divide us
                                                                 like broken cement
still, I shop for him, a life alone in a gray wasteland
my duty, a quest for inner peace

the familiar charity in my father drifts from him
                                   like cigarette ash, up in smoke

I kiss his cheek before I go
                 unguarded moment
                 to heal battlefield wounds
                 to open barricades between us

                 the battered stumble of hope







Poem composed: January 23/2022

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