My Father Reads

With a book propped on his chest

My father reads.

So important is this work that it must be quiet.

My mother says, "shhhh"

As my wide-eyed gaze rests

On the big book on his chest.

With a book on his head

Like a tent of knowledge

My father snores.

The pages flip and flicker with his breath.

So important is this work

That my mother says "shhhh"

It must be quiet.

I take to his study, the sanctuary of

Books, where my father writes.

It smells like paper and ink,

Fresh books to devour.

But I am only four

And I cannot do this important work.

Then I decide, it's time to read.

So I lie on the couch

(As I’m sure this is how it starts)

And I place the book on my chest

Staring, looking, searching for the magic of words.

Is this reading? Is this work?

I want to do this important job

So I place the tent over my head

And snore to add effect.

I feel the words flowing in.

Through my nose they come

Like the burn before a sneeze

I can smell them, a dusty breeze,

Sweet and perfumy, tickly and sharp.

And then I sneeze.

The book hits the floor.

Like thunder has crashed, my father jumps,

Leaps from the couch, looking for the source

Of the offending noise.

I watch from the stairs as he yawns and rubs his eyes

And returns the book to his lap,

This time sitting and staring

At the mesmerizing pages.

And I wonder, what a thing it is

To love something so much

That you do it all day

Even if it puts you to sleep.