My father lay asleep,
frowning,
a novel's wings folded 
atop his belly.

The wrinkles of
his florid face
betrayed the passivity
that marked
birthdays, failed deals, and
       the diagnosis.
 
His heavy presence calmed
an afternoon
of waning possibilities.
 

Then his sickled mouth quivered,
erasing the jawline, stirring
the stupor.
 
Eyes unfastened,
doughy fleshed,
he stood up and
quietly withdrew
from the room.