Dad

In the front yard by the wire fence, I watch him,

this man my father, as he stands in the drain between

our building and the one next door.

He is ten feet down and busy with his task. He does not notice me.

Swish swish goes the thick broom as he pushes the trickling water

from the long green hose snaking from the tap in the center of the

front yard.  It squeezes between a gap in the wire fence and dangles

down the tall wall.  The concrete border is almost clean now.

I saw it all, he worked in the hot sun from one end of the gutter

to the other.  He did not notice me.  I must blend in somehow,

my small face invisible, my gaze unfelt.  I would speak to him,

say hey dad, I am here, watching.  I want to be friends. 

He does not notice me.  He pushes the water into the drain

and slings the broom over his shoulder.  Then he climbs up

the ladder.  He turns off the tap, shakes out the hose.

He gathers it up, winding it around his arm.  It settles against him.

I would like to settle against him, see his smile, feel his arms

around me, holding me, hear him tell me that he loves me.

He does not notice me.  He puts the hose in the shed,

enters the kitchen.  He turns and looks at me.  “Are you coming in?”

I look at him and nod mutely, follow him inside. The adults talk.

I go to my room.  I look out my window.

They come and go, the cars, always busy on the street.

People hurry along.  Mothers with children. Families. Old people.

 I hear him walking up the stairs.  I hear his door.

He’s in his room now.  I could knock on his door, say hello.

I have homework.  I should do it.  They know my name at school.

                                                                                       Fri 3 April 2026