Dad's message drove me up the spiraling lane,

Snow puffs across a driveway entry,
like childhood phantoms invade my mind.
The heavens, a pitch-black cavity,
against glinting potholes of ice
along a lighted highway.
Dad's message drives me up the spiraling lane,
the narrow passage is as colorless
as my blank thoughts.
His drawn face greets me,

bits and pieces of the sofa's motif
scars his cheeks.
More than once, years ago,
I studied those patterns on Mother's face.
A half bottle of wine,
an empty pack of smokes sets on the end table.
Dad's intent look utters an instant query,
lines around his eyes notch inward,
murky blue eyes, a dour twitchy grin,
emerges to warn me.

A eerie silence throughout the house,
family pictures on the wall gawk.
Sensing a distress,
his Boston terrier nuzzles his long legs.
Dad fidgets and then,
"Ben, gave up his ghost today...
I need to be with you...
hear your voice, see your face,
I'm lost without his.