Late Morning Siesta

Poem By Werner Schmidt

For my father

Your white socks rest on the leather couch
as you close your eyes. My eyes.
Dearly departed Grandma's eyes.
Your fleshy tarantulas and hairy forearms cover your belly.
The breathing cadaver position. My favourite.

Doves have been crying for forty years plus
from telephone poles.
Grandma's African Grey echoes them
advancing her legacy for who knows how long.

White T-shirt, black tracksuit pants
the socks and brown leather sandals.
Your trademarks since forever.

They say one's nose and ears
never stop growing.
With a head start like yours …

A baritone metal mosquito circles in the sky.
A sound my grandchildren may not know.
Yours being one of three generations bubbling outside, now.

Why are we so quiet after all these years?
Will it be louder, or audible, at least
once we start voicing our desires?

Maybe I'm also ready for my late morning siesta.
I slump on the sofa opposite you
like I used to, two, three decades ago.
Your grandson melts into my arms.

A whisper: "Daddy …"
before eyes drift into dreams.

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