The Fieldstone Review

Still Life

A green stool.
Two pillows.

The only light, one circle
over a corner of a chair.

Father, in his uniform,
lumps the wooden floor
with hulky snores, and blocks
the doorway to the kitchen.

The daughter steps closer,
bends to feel his breath
on her cheek, bristles
at the dark heat on the fingers.

She squats, squints.
Checks his pockets
for change.

It could be a small animal
she is greeting, darkness
this feral dream.

Her hand
rising like a fist
full of coins,
grubby moons
upon his shoulder.