-let’s hear it-

father

at the wheel

exhaled smoke

to the windshield

hits and veers

through the cracked windows

like ghosts on the run

or death's angels
to return another time

mother

as close to the bobbin

as eyes can get
conning the material through

at the tuck of the laundered
sheets

at the sink

at the oilcloths

in and out of the narrow
pantry
to the kitchen's great expanse

sole attendant to the strainer
decides when and where
to stack the plates resting therein

father
at the day's labor ended

sits at the bean-
bag ashtray's arm of the easiest chair
the exhaled smoke is rising now —

mother
at the day's labor ended

sits at the nucleus
of everything of the inside completed now.