And all is well
The damp basement air hangs heavy
with browns and blacks and wax
and swishes of the repetition
of horsehair on leather,
on a Sunday morning,
the one time of the week
my father
can polish his shoes,
can escape from us.
Colors blare from the TV in the corner
as I apply myself as I will
to diecast cars flying down
homemade cardboard ramps.
My mother in the kitchen above,
dyeing and pressing dough into
spades and diamonds and hearts and clovers,
a rich hand dealt
but I unable to see
how lucky it is.
-8/17/2016
Words will keep us together 