February 6, 2015

Overtime


My father's food
sits untouched on his plate,
cut into small pieces
by my stepmother's hand,
the game on TV
bogged down in a tie.

He stares into space,
remembering my mother 
by a pool in the sun,
wondering if ever
he'll see her again,
somehow.

Finally his team
turns the ball over,
the other team's moving,
looking like nothing
can stop them,
now.