The father
Who dreamed as much as stars dream to shine,
To see the son who left for the city
In search of a companion who would
Birth his next little soccer star.
The companion who
Always remains satisfied with what she doesn’t have while remembering the times just far enough in the past when she did,
Who would set out the Haft Seen for her little PhD hopeful
With pearl white eggs painted to castrate her pain,
From the husband who would mark his place with a box of cigarettes each night, perpendicular with the turquoise paisley-print deck of cards and an old sour cherry jar turned ashtray;
Each item sitting vigil like chess pieces over his dead mother’s abominable Koran,
The same son who always chirped Arabic dreams so that his father mistook
His aimlessness for namaz.
After all, who would leave the town of faithful servants
The father remembered for the time he volunteered down the oil well to spring the town’s heating system– “Blop Plop, Glop, Blop Blop,”
In exchange for priority on the next town shipment of sandals.
And now, take my word,
That father prays everyday that his son returns the favor
With his soccer ball.
