​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. 

​Soft hands pry open crooked doors to see
if she is still there beneath heaps of light.
Lost in time, stuck on a coffee stained word.
She moves over, so I can feel her heat.
When creaky floorboards squeak and windows flee
from dull latches, darkness sneaks in and bites.
Her soothing voice chirps-she is my songbird.
She combs my wet tangles, being discrete
to catch any drops before they run free.
​She's there when fragile things crumble and night 
time feels long; when innocence becomes blurred. 
Soft whispers to try to always stay sweet.
​You won't want my help when you grow older. 
I will - should have meant it when I told her.