A sweaty glass lays in the hand of a tired man Husbands of a wife, a woman in business. The lemon rests easily against the side of the glass, slowly changing the water to juice Running a finger around the edge, a sound does not issue forth, but rather a wet finger drenched in the now tasteless, ice watered liquid Too tired to get a refill, the man shifts his bulk, under the velour, the skin settles. Dry air crackles around him with sunday morning 4am slow energy. The sun is rising, the man's head is pressed back, back against the neck of the chair. he is asleep.
poetry | dad | life
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