He sleeps, peaceful on the chair,
head gently rested on a dormant fist.
Snores bellow, the room shivers with quakes.
Smells of spent cake mingle with a fire,
they permeate the room,
marinated in a clove coat.
I watch him, covered with a glow,
so proud that worse days are behind us.
Paper wrapping lays crinkled along
the wooden laths, remnants of happy faces.
A pang reaches deep, that one day
I will see only the chair's indent of him,
but for today, we own eachother.
Sonja Broderick
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-father-christmas/
