There’s a moment in the morning
As you reluctantly rise before the sun
To do his work (the early shift
Themselves in ways you can not understand)
Whatever little light finds its way into the room through thick makeshift curtains and blinds
Is drawn to you as if it loves you as much as I,
But it cannot.
Undeterred it clings like dead leaves to the ground aware that their hold is never enough but is all they have.

Is this an education?
My father would ask. He was a poet
Of sorts, able to take nothing and make it a beautiful something. A doer of deeds.
Much like The Father I guess
We don’t talk about that anymore.