the day a father falls

the day a father falls is calm and warm outside;
humidity pandiculates along its asphalt bed
of dappled paisley shadows—
a sunshower
washes green suspendum leaves
 
and cars return—doors open, close, beset the street with noise of feet
percussing ground to hurry home. A routine rhythm making mum
the gentle thump
the hour in
the day a father falls.
 
quiet minutes pass in line like stepping round a sleeping
bum before you find him—dour, glum—
(mistrals of a season’s change:
the peppered scalp,
arms’ graven slack define his age, reaching up for help)
the sun withdraws, jejune thoughts in tow;
he sits to rest,
the table turns
the day a father falls.