Father

 Sweat wake, sticky motivation

Beaded collection of stove top manipulation

Orchestrating some way

To grant reprieve to the fear, of what comes.

86 years and to land in this pit

Of gauze and terror. Fuck this wound.

Goring cannot be the answer, though it is

For now.

So I lift, I lighten, I attempt to distract

By any means necessary,

In the event that we squeeze one more quality day

From this man whom I call 'Father'.