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
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