Looming hesitantly through the frosted glass before the door slowly opens. He stares out, eyes like a South Park character's, then his face fumbles a smile. I try not to overhug his rigid frailty. Inside the house, a smell of dust and laundry.
Dad shuffles, hands shaking, to the kitchen. Carrier bags full of shopping not put away encumber the floor. On the table are several boxes from Meals on Wheels, some opened, some untouched. I can barely hear his dry mumble asking if I want a cup of tea.
webs on a box of
high tensile bolts
note: haiku first published in Blithe Spirit 23:1, 2013