You fly back home, sit at the kitchen table <br />with the wake cake. The crumbs inside the foil. <br />Thirty years have passed and you are able <br />only to stare outside. You watch him toil <br />in the garden, turn the frozen soil. <br />You open up his lager, pick the label, <br />look at the food that in three days will spoil, <br />wonder if there is meaning to the fable. <br />He rests the rusty shovel by the window. <br />His heavy breath is warm and live and rising. <br />He smiles to you. You feel the winter wind blow <br />through the panes. You look down at the icing. <br />He's speaking now beyond the stars. You listen. <br />You are ten years old and forever his son.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wake-cake/
