by Ashton Wronikowski

Sometime between late and early
the floors groan under familiar footsteps
falling through the house.
Gunshots and war cries clamor through
the crack of my closed door as
I listen for the sigh of old age
escaping your favorite chair when you
occupy your station.

So starts the game that takes place every night.
John Wayne’s drawl is the call
for me to shrug off sleep’s soft whispers,
stroking my hair and promising good dreams.
This is my only opening —
at 3 A.M. with cracked cups of coffee
warming your hands and cigarette embers
winking in the dark.

Silently, I slip from underneath the sheets,
in case the warden sleeps lightly tonight.
You’ve passed down lessons from deer in the backyard, and I approach slowly.
We both know to bolt
if one careless step cracks in the air.
Folding myself into the chair next to you,
we sit in the quiet
and prepare for me to break it.

“Papa, what was it like seeing Grandma for the first time?”

[ display-posts category=”poetry”]