There is
a slosh of lukewarm coffee.
He holds
his cup as if warming
his hands on it.
We sit
and he reads,
like it is the same night
of stories and children in the photos
that curl against themselves
on his dresser,
when
my reasons for sitting
with him
were not what
they are.
His coffee is cold.
This waiting is ugly.
He reads, he falls asleep,
reads.
I pretend there is no lacuna.
I laugh when he needs me to
and lie enough.