My father sat in his kitchen
In the same old rickety chair
Reading the same damn newspaper
Drinking coffee from a chipped mug
That he won at a carnival
For successfully throwing rings
At bottles thirty years ago.
Ever since I can remember
This same continuous routine
Has gone on barring illnesses.
I can predict what’s coming next:
He’ll ask about the wife and kids.
“Morning son, how’s the wife and boys?”
“They’re all fine, dad. Want a refill?”