my father sitting at the table
in the morning.
smoking.
babies crying in
the other room.
his eggs gone,
toast, and bacon,
now scraps.
his white coffee cup
in his hand.
how with a flick of his
finger he'd knock
ashes off, into the dish.
the look in his blue eyes.
a worried stare,
how was he going to get
out of this mess.
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