By Michael H. Sato
Father comes then goes in the morning
Looking into the bathroom mirror,
Mother, too, when I take the pills
And wait for the blood pressure reading.
Where do they go the rest of the time
During the day and the long nights,
Is he still reading his newspaper,
Is she still puzzling over her Sudoku?
He’s here again when I put my socks on
Over the gnarled toe nails;
She’s been here more recently
When I’ve had difficulty sleeping.
They’re both here when I use my hands
To tell a story like father used to,
With mother’s hands shaping the air
The way she never used them.
They are certainly not ghosts,
They never spoke of afterlives,
So we’ll keep company I suppose
For the rest of my life.
Copyright 2018 Sato