Monday Morning Visit

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?”