Papa thinks he’s sober
slouched over his eggs
like runny yolks and
grease oozing the edge of his plate.
But he drags that barroom
with him all the time
like a friend who never leaves
no matter that kin comes begging
for a night home,
home we don't bother filling
with more than his picture
framed with his pride dangling
from a fish hook
reeled out of Salt Creek.

I know better than to speak,
that his words will stagger across the table
and his excuses stumble along
trying to catch up
before they topple over the edge
like a glass of beer
that should never have been poured.

I let silence grow as cold as his coffee
that fills the stained cracks of porcelain
spidering the cup
he clutches like a dead ember,
believing resurrection
is a prayer answered for the asking.