sadness is when tears well up in my father’s eyes
as we sit across from one another in the worn red
leather booths of a worn down cafe chewing cinnamon
raisin toast that suddenly gets stuck in my throat
and scratches all the way down like nails on
a chalkboard the clinking of forks and knives against aging
porcelain plates fading distant in the background and i can see reflected
in the glassy blue of his eyes my own face twisted in an
anguish that is knowing i will one day cry his tears to
my own child and hope they don’t feel as though
they would morph into the tablecloth only to
catch his falling tears and so i reach between our tall
orange juices to grasp my father’s trembling hand
and the waitress comes to see if our toast is okay
yes everything is fine thank you.
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