A fall day as warm

as the heat dad leaves in his

faux-leather lazyboy

while he roots around in the fridge

for a beer

and hope

for the team that always loses–

you realize now,

a dozen-some-odd years later,

what a gift that heat was

from a man so cold.

You ooze into it,

wrap it around you like an old blanket,

and smell dad’s cologne,

the cigarettes on his yellowed breath,

while you watch a pair of deer

root around in the colorfully dying leaves

for lichen

and hope

for a future that is always past.

Fading leaves collage themselves,

kaleidoscoping into a singular background–

a curtain and a set and a prop for the players,

like mute fans in the stands–

and you wonder

if dad will ever return

and if that warmth will drift off with him

as the deer scatter

and the fans all go home.