Up In Smoke
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
Copyright © Brian Sambourne | Year Posted 2022
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