To My Papa's Ears

Silence, 
at the end of the table. 
They just aren't as keen 
as they once were. 

They sit, 
waiting for a sound 
to be swept 
up and carried 
inside. 
But the wind 
these nights 
is quiet,
and still. 

Maybe it was the roar 
from the jets 
as he trudged 
across borders, 
protecting a country insistent 
on making the same 
mistakes. 
Coming home to find himself 
stranded, 
deserted, 
among all the people
he loves the most. 
What happened to
man down
and why are we powerless
to stop it?
​
They miss the click 
of his pen
from the morning crossword puzzles, 
and the afternoon news 
that remind him the world 
will always be one step 
ahead of him. 
But most of all, 
they miss the song 
that wakes him from his armchair. 

Only this time, 
the other line rattles
with vibrations. 

They imagine its happy birthday Papa
and that maybe it's just as crooked 
beautiful as they remember.

They can't hear the words 
that tumble 
out of his mouth to whisper 
I love you, 
but even with a broken 
record player,
the words still ring 
true.