Icon

On what felt like
and ultimately was
my life’s final night
with my father,
his fast yet failing feet
shuffled to the archway
and lingered,
voice stolen—
a stooped silhouette,
icon backlit by blue light—
to look into the room
where I lay in the dark
on an air mattress,
slowly deflating,
for a last look at me,
his breathing child,
who would
drive away forever
in the morning.