The only softness of your leathery skin,
the wrinkles that lid your eye,
your practice is to shut them firm
and then let them yawn an empty, disappointed, sigh;
I spectate how you've worn them thin
with very little to say.
The same routine you taught me many a time
but I never learnt to play,
using them-sarcastically-to mitt-the eyes
that are thrown away
for your son, "the successful one", who's come home;
"This time," he says, "to stay".
If only I could communicate
that in those few seconds
your eyelids hover
drooping expectant dismay;
all I'm thinking
is I love this man.
The catch is how to say.