the mocha loveseat, dusted with ashes
from the foot of your Maduro cigar,
wheezes
as you flip through the classifieds.
my nimble hands
wrestle with angels,
folding gently around a mug of
hot vanilla chai.
briefly, you look out the apartment window,
following the movements
of the colored boys' legs, as they swingdance in clean tennis shoes
between jumpshots and free throws.
I can see the longing in your laugh lines, papa,
as you wobble over your cane
to the back porch, and call out,
with a wounded yelp
to what remains of God.
once, you scrounged for scraps of bread
on the hollow Ukrainian streets, you asked for water
and he gave you
the Holodomor.
so now, you cry, in an antiquated accent,
sobbing for sleep,
and the pity is, papa,
that you think He can hear you