Weeknights are with Dad now
hefty lumps of hot spaghetti,
eating on the ground, rust colored carpet caked
in our lives, peeling potatoes on a bucket,
the working class grit I got half of
the sadness of a single scratch on a used record
the ruthless clench of hope found in the jaw
off brand cola, our Mother’s milk
which swiftly effervesces and burns the residue
of all that could be in our throat, Dad laughing
at Kramer, my brother laughing at Dad,
I wish this moment could pull like a bubble from a wand
and suspend forever but I have to refill
the Gatorade bottle with soap
and feed the dryer my Ohio and Virginia quarters
and decide that math homework is important
but I cannot convince myself to play with numbers
the lack of which has pooled thoughts
of death in my Dad which I am now privy to
as I trace the ridge on a pack of Lorna Doones
and pour us all a cold glass of 2%
Dad teaches us how to cookie soak
I rub the velvet vinyl cleaner against my arm.