My Father's Voice
On a dry summer day like this,
my three young daughters
all gone to their three separate homes
with their three separate mothers,
the silence would be unbearable
in this hollow shell of a house
if not for the quart of troubled water
brought to a rolling boil, awaiting
Ramen noodles, ever hopeful
it might spill over and agitate the burner.
It is easy to imagine, on such a day,
my father’s voice the afternoon
he left without a single word of reason,
goodbye, or half-meant encouragement,
while I watch a tumble-weed stumble across
a Texas plain, swept by June’s indifferent wind.
12/2/2018
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