Crinkled Pages

Knees frosted with dirt, Tomorrow’s outfit folded without a wrinkle in sight, sitting on the bed waiting. The smell of boiling meat and potatoes covers you, Like a sleeping blanket during a fall camping trip. My father’s muscles are gravel in the road. His body is an open book sitting on the coffee table, Each page an open window that I peer out of, I place the book on my lap. Turning the crinkled yellowed pages Releases the smell of flower corpses that kiss my cheek. The sound of the alarm fills the room like the buzzing of a thousand bees as I turn to wipe the smudge of grease from his face. He brushes the hair from my forehead, Scoops me up in his arm like an outfielder plucking a ball from the sky We look outside to see light flowing over the hill like hot fudge sauce Poured over a cold mountain of ice cream.