Lunch at the Redfish Grill

One half of my heart beats stronger here,

back in sight of where I am from.

Under dripping trees, behind a rain streaked window

my father sits across from me.



I lean into the wall of the booth, 

against the soft oiled panels of wood. 

My fingers wander through my lunch with

rough callous as though I have his hands,

becoming stiff knuckles and elephant skin.



I earned his posture. The younger, solid self 

he traded for age and deepening lines, softer hair.

Fingers I didn’t think could get heavy

now draw fragile stresses in the air.

© L.R. Fidler