A writer at work.
An ashtray graces the corner
of a left-handed gentleman's desk.
My father's memerobilia hovers in whisps
like cob webs and skeletons in my father's closet.
I take note of my compulsive utilization
of his Office Max swivel chair,
like a sailor making his bed
a week out from the fantasy of seeing
his daughter for the first time.
My mind bubbles with comic book quotations,
guided with mini marshmallows to either side of my head.
floating like a halo or a statically charged balloon.
Wham! Zap! shhhhhh!
My pops wakes himself up
with a ripple of snorts, gurgles,
and deep nasal snores.
Sleepwalking towards the kitchen
(he could find the place in his sleep...wait?)
his robotic gestures appropriate his necessities.
Wearing my shades inside
I conceal the evidence.
Venturing into sin,
I reach for the mouse.
