in the arms of his big chair

i dream

that i'm in a room with my

father.

he's no longer

old

and grey,

withered to the bone,

near blind

and deaf,

sunken in the arms

of his big

chair,

but he's in his fifties,

muscled,

and funny, his blue

eyes shining

in the light

from the window.

we don't talk about

important things,

but we know

there is love there.

same as when he was

here.