Waking

I know that once the sound of
the doorknob turning hits my ears
like a gunshot at two or maybe
three in the morning, I will hear
my father’s footsteps sink into
the marble floor like feeble boats
and the fatigued rhythm of his movement
that indicate how surely he is aging
and cannot afford to have his sleep
interrupted so many times in a week
And I cannot but keep as still as the furniture
as his stern words attempt to
traverse the sea between us. I like to think
that we might be two panes of an open window
which will one day be firmly shut,
but till then what remains is a long receipt
of merciful silences, like the one that
accompanies us in the dead of the night,
or the one colder than the air-con in the
car as he drives me to school
while I watch the daylight gush out
from the wound in the sky.