I watch my father go. Later,
to leave again. Always at odd hours.
Perhaps between a bath and a story, or when morning clouds
settle three poles down the road (you know,
that land surrounding the castle and the dragon—that land
noone claims). I watch
my father in constant motion
between meals and the elsewhere which occurs
behind doors/downtown/across the street/at odd
angles to a drill press/tumbling through Sunday
in a shot glass/repairing the sofa/in the snow
of a Motorola black and white tv before
the test pattern mantra of tuned in.
I watch my father, but he never becomes.