Finally it’s middle night, the town’s asleep
and I can watch my breath hit the porch
with no fear of friendly small talk from neighbors
introducing themselves for the umpteenth time.
My father sings and strums throughout the day—
lovelorn ballads about winter following spring.
His voice cracks and twangs, he falls deep
into his Valley accent only then, when he thinks
I can’t hear through the door. I truly am
my father’s son, burying old love notes
in our overgrown heirloom tomatoes,
giving the dirt her words, the ink that she watched dry.
This late at night, he’s due to come down
in his underwear, use the bathroom, drink
from the tap, and in that moment we’ll be
the only ones awake in this single-stoplight town.
Goodnight Dad. Goodnight son. From my father, I got
my fingernails, my slouch, my rearview mirror.
From somewhere I’m not sure of I got these lungs
full of confetti and a case of somniloquy
only she could stand. Here in Shenandoah
where no one but family knows my name,
I can watch frost creep over the garden and listen
to my father sleep fitfully upstairs, shaking
the house with every stir. If he talks in his sleep,
I can’t hear him through the door.
One of us will have to die first.