Under his always broken Bonneville. On his knees
nailing down a carpet. Forever
my father,

but most at the kitchen table after
the dishes were cleared. After
we’d all eaten.
That barbed-wire silence.

On top of his pad: Salary.
On the next line: Rent then minus, then $
and the amount.

Car and the minus
Insurance minus
Gas minus
Tolls minus
Oil leak minus

Each short pencil rip
across the paper – a sudden jab
to his gut.

Food minus
Doctors minus
Dentist minus
Clothes

Teeth brushed, I wait. Afraid
to breathe too loud, to say good night.

See this man who never closes his eyes.
See him lying in the dark. See
the cracks in the ceiling glaring
at him.

Plaster
Primer
Paint
Brushes

Minus
Minus
Minus
Minus

Bright, cold, ceaseless.

Appeared in Kestrel: A Journal of Literature & Art, 2024