Sand-eyed and Smiling

Just another flying Monday breakfast

half-packed, unwashed, in Friday's clothes.

Door slamming and sand-eyed, hot bread in hand

I began the hill

and remembered how your mother

would butter toast, tuck us in,

your father's merry, snoring head

tipped back and spent. The smoke thick air,

the cigar and liquor's dancing scent. Our tongues

and theories, sweetened, exhausted

slept well.

And remembered how your mother

would butter toast, kick us out

still young and years from hungover.

We'd breathe and smile in Saturday’s, Sunday's

morning light and frost, fulfilled.

Then learned, released

begin home.