Tuesday, November 16, 2010


He brings me coffee,

my father does,

to make up for the times

that we've clashed in our lives

Only three things we share:

a paintbrush and pen,

and this warm caffeine

that powers our limbs

So I sit in my bedroom

in the softened pale light

of a quiet afternoon

with not much to do

And he puts down his pallet

in the house I was raised in

to bring me coffee in the rain

because some things can change

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