permanent liberty

my father
begins each day with a black
cup of coffee.
very hot.
two slices
of toast and a bowl of
oatmeal.
he reads the paper,
checks the lottery numbers,
then
takes a walk around
the block
before coming home
to cut coupons.
he might go out into the small
square of a back
yard and tend to his
tomatoes and peppers.
straighten the fence around
them.
the television is always
on.
a new flat screen,
jerry rigged to use one
remote.
his big chair is in the corner.
it's pleather
with cup holders.
around him are photos
of all of his
children and grand
children of whom
he rarely sees or
speaks to,
but there they are.
after being on a dozen ships
and serving
thirty one years in the navy.
he's docked
for good now.