by imightbejames

“Papa,” I ask,

“When will you be home?”

Friday, he says,

away again,

business trip,

He’ll be back and he’ll be tired,

worn down by the air miles,

brittle stone, ready to snap.


Last week Papa broke,

Son use your cutlery properly, god fucking damn it,

and the sharp wasp-sting crack of the spoon soon followed,

and I have learnt my lesson.


“Papa,” I ask,

“When will you come home?”

Thursday, he says,

He’ll be there when I come back from school,

hopefully avoiding the large pile of Lego,

the wreckage of a thousand forgotten spaceships and racing cars

strewn across my bedroom floor.


“Papa.” I say.

“Why are you never home?”

Wednesday, he replies,

And steps out of the door.


Another piece for the workshop on Monday. I think this works better as a character piece.