Winter’s early cold has gathered
steam against the windows,
softening the lights’ reflection.
Standing in the doorway,
I strain above the hum of the dryer
to hear my son
as he narrates his play by whisper
in the old claw foot bathtub.
I should be helping him,
but he hasn’t noticed me there,
and the teacup is warm in my hands.
Finally he stills and calls to me — Dad?
I thought you were going to keep me company?
Of course I am.
Of course I am.
