Dad

He lives a life of tortured oblivion
Quietly creeping between our world
and some mystical realm where the day
begins near midnite
afternoons spin by in search of
fork, or cup or some semblance of a real life he once knew
Haunted he is by questions

We love his new cuisine,
yet we wonder where the recipes come from.
while he’s away, does a bird of the other realm
whisper to him of fashionable things?

Here he is, relaxing in his favorite chair,
asleep now as he often is
There it is,
that familiar laugh
and a smile upon waking

He looks the same
It’s easy to forget.