in winter, my father
would
retreat
to his big chair in the corner
and smoke
a cigar
in the dark.
he was in a mood.
a silent mood
angry about things
to which we had
no clue.
my mother would whisper
to us,
telling us to
stay
clear.
give him a few days,
he'll get over it.
here,
take him this bean
soup i made
and this beer.
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