I tell my father to write because he is good at it or because I do not want to hear his demons anymore. I am not Kafka he tells me. Your name is close enough I tell him. Go to sleep, my little cockroach he tells me.
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you are shore
and i am sea
our endless divergence can’t you see
smoke climbs up lazily
from your cigarette and
you gaze mindlessly across the table.
our eyes meet;
the misplaced spark jumps
from green plastic
in your hand.
"we are simply caught between
the greedy hunger of
yes yes yes
and the bitter pinpricks of
no no no,"
you tell me.
i sound my response with an invented cough; the waiter puts it out with a frosty glass of water.
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