My room was more of a tomb

preserved mementos settling in--

 a sediment of summer camp pictures

orphaned snapshots

scattered around the room.

 

As I unpacked my bag

I could hear the ancient tribal call

of my late father

from the backyard

and my comic, chaplinesque

descent, down the staircase

a chubby boy in pursuit

of the carbon-crusted meat

the sting of vinegar on the roof of my mouth

from the fascist whip of German potato salad.

 

It is  3AM

during my 38th year

my elderly father's light

still burns in his room

he rubs the gray stubble

of his weathered cheeks

so tired

but still scheming

in the early hours

still planning

another assault on Madison Ave

afraid to turn the lights out

and face the dark.

 

He walks like the lonely

sentry he once was

in Liverpool during the war

between bedroom and bathroom.

I no longer hear

a youthful stream

pierce the water

all is tentative

and a struggle

and I barely contain my tears

when I see his shrunken frame

hunched over

pressing out what is left of him

so late in the night.