He comes into the room and plops down into his desk chair,
puts his legs up on the desk and stares at me. I type. He turns
his attention to the news online and starts to drum his fingers
to a steady beat. He sighs and turns my way again. I write,
try to concentrate on my poem, almost complete. He gets up
pushes the chair against the desk and walks out. The garage door
closes. I hear the Harley start up, then sputter quiet. I know
he wants to go. Every night he wants to go somewhere
do something. I know he is the most important person in my life.
I know. I can’t keep up, don’t want to keep up. He walks in
stands in the doorway and clears his throat. I turn
my computer off. I think we need to have a talk.
