Father’s Breakfast
He ate a crustacean
every morning
the pure wild ones
He called the lobster
a sacrament and cleaned
his table with a napkin
his grandmother sewed
when she was 14 in Idaho
I watched him eat
and the embers from the stove
cooked into crystalline spheres
I once told him that I loved him
just loud enough
so he would not hear
Read More Poems From the New York Almanack HERE.
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