Figures Are for Counting
The night grows ripe, I decide to venture
down the stairs, out of the curiosity
that draws us to find what we want to forget.
I see him down there, passed out
in front of the television with streaks
of vomit on his shirt and in his beard.
So I took a seat next to him.
Maybe something good is on tv.
He stirs and I settle into the fact that he will wake.
I turn up the television. His eyes creek open as though
they were the rusty doors of an old barn,
Upon seeing me, he starts, but still remains
out of mind.
And in a voice that shows he is both nervous
and willing to keep his place as a father figure, he asks
“hey, what are you doing up this late”. He doesn't know
that I struggle with insomnia, and that I have snored
with him these past lonely weeks.
I don't respond and he seems afraid now,
that I may just then exclaim my disappointment in him,
until my nature takes over and lament his sad life with him.
There is a bottle of bourbon on the floor
next to his feet. I pick it up and pour a shot.
Before he can register this, I knock it back.
My eyes grow heavy
as a fall asleep next to him
Who's to be disappointed?