What we do too

I cry

about the graying of my father at 1am on

the balcony,

finding some comfort in being alone with

other windows lit with TV glow

and the sounds of city traffic.

You work

even on your days off, so we

can really appreciate hamburgers and rain and

the bonsai tree house.

Because that’s really all there is to me; that, and

espresso now because of you, and books, and

I love

how there’s always flowers on the island,

a continuous cycle of laundry going,

and a color-coded calendar on the corkboard.

All these things tried to be before and here

you let them be and grow, but there

I was just letting them die.