Reflex

I keep the engine running in the drive.

It’s the only way to feel mostly alive.

I tilt the glass to check a stray tooth-stain

and see my father’s ghost, the same old grain.

The silvering is peeling at the edge,

a gray scab clinging to a plastic ledge.

His eyes look back, tired and deeply set.

I’m not ready to go into the kitchen yet.