In antiquity,
my father would have been a drunk historian -
our Lord in the attic,
savior of the dust.
Sipping ancient brews with
elderberry, jackfruits, and almond,
fuel for the hours,
light for the library
His tea dispenser - double Earl Grey
reminds me
the world is his study.
He is forever in the stacks,
breathing chalky syllables,
laughing in Hebrew.
I play cards in silence as he plays at his stories.
I've heard them before, I don't interrupt
finishing his punchlines in my head
and stealing them
I live this way because of him.
This hit me hard for a bunch of reasons I won't bore you with. But thank you for writing this, man.