A Portrait of My Father

A Portrait of My Father

I hold my purse and wait for him to finish.

He always takes long, you see,
when he is immersed.

He falls into the pages, drowning
in the black sea of words, and even
my hands can't pull him out of
the depths.

I almost want to speak, to see if
he'll look up, but I know that won't
coax him out of the ocean. I look over
his shoulder, trying to understand
what magic draws him in, what
words can mean more than me.

But I see nothing: only little ants
on a white sheet of paper.

I don't mind. I'm content just
sitting by him, my red dress blooming
around me, my feet touching the cobblestones.
I wish I could take my shoes off.