-let’s hear it-

father at the wheel,

the exhaled smoke

caresses the windshield

then parts outward

through the open windows

like the Sea of Reeds,

or death's angels
retreating from his lungs

to return another time.

mother

as close to the bobbin's needle

as eyes dare go

conning the material through —

there, at the tuck of laundered

sheets, then found at the sink, deeper
than the distance to my knees as I remember ––

hovering over the oilcloths,
sweeping the surfaces, ranging

in and out of the narrow pantry

into the kitchen's expanse,

the sole attendant to when
and where the supper dishes,––

washed, drained of water and leaning,
will be wiped and stacked, adding to
the weight and density
of the seemingly limitless cupboards.

father,

at the day's labor ended

sits in the easiest of chairs where
the ashtray's contents
are closing-in on its parameters,

the exhaled smoke is rising now.

mother,

at the day's labor ended

sits at the nucleus

of everything inside now completed.



                          the early goings on at 1017,
                          Quequechan