these years go by

you see him from
your window, the
thin blue curtain
pulled back to hold
the shadow on your
bed, your small
hand rubbing a
circle against
the wet pane. you
see your father
scrapping ice off
his truck, and
carrying a ladder
from the back yard
to strap down upon
the snow iced rack.
you see him with his
tilted old cap,
open up the doors,
and settle with
himself what he
needs, the things
that he lacks.
his day is ahead of
him, alone, and
hard, and without
much thanks, and
before he gets into
the truck, as it warms
and blows a pipe
of steam into the
january air, he looks
up at me, in
the window and waves
his gloved hand,
and i in turn with
joy and something akin
to sadness, wave back.