He moves like he’s trying not to wake the floorboards

He moves like he’s trying not to wake the floorboards,

shuffling toward the sink with a limp

that wasn’t there at Christmas.

He tries on my father’s old bit about the horse

and the bartender, but the words

get caught in his throat like a dry pill.

He stands there, knuckles white,

clutching a dishcloth with a bleach stain

shaped exactly like a thumbprint.

He’s looking at me to finish the sentence,

to give him the laugh he didn’t earn,

while the faucet drips into a plastic bowl.