By Leslie Lords Robbins

My father, inches away on my couch,
sinks his body into cushions where he stays
to slow me down with conversations.
Rippling syllables, staccato-like words,
round his soft ears as he pretends to bend
around my life and understand. He sees me,
his only daughter with two daughters of my own.
My body shaped from his, stands against the wall,
rubbing it nervously, pushing for him to leave,
to shut the door on a morning visit
where the day spills through windows.
Come ahead everything my way; words to read,
sinks to clean, rugs to turn, corners to sweep,
mouths to feed.
He is gone.

About Leslie Lords Robbins

Leslie Lords Robbins is a professor of English and teaches writing and literature in Salt Lake City, Utah. She is married to her kindergarten sweetheart and they have three daughters who take their breath away every day. With twenty marathons behind her, including two Boston Marathons, she now finds new energy as she competes in team triathlons with her daughters. Every decade she discovers something new about living life in the gospel and believing in Jesus Christ.

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