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The Back of Dad's Chair
The back of Dad's chair is black like a void,
its mid discontinuous of solid support.
Cushion coils creak as his weight shifts,
his interest unhinged from light hypnosis.
The scuff of rough wheels rub fine lines in
encumbering crumb-crusted floorboards,
which mundanely sustain the weight
of a burdened waistline and wasted years.
He forfeits the fortunes of a father: favor and honor,
as points tabulate and clock ticks wick up
the last of my sapped up, tapped out tears.
His glowing, giddy face is unfazed,
too focused on fantasies to notice me.
Dad's back trespasses my passive stares,
his incessant inattentiveness ingrained
like the prison-bar stripes on the back of his chair.
10/5/2022
Copyright ©
Juliet Ligon
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