The photo I lost
is black and white,
has a crease from side to side
and odd, scalloped edges.
Below the crease are my father’s
skinny ankles and below them,
his slippers.
He sits on the couch and stares
at something out of sight
in his bathrobe late at night with me,
the last of seven,
tucked into the crook of his arm.
I look strange, almost deformed,
as I crane my neck,
trying to look into his face.

The daisies down
behind the barn
have all their
petals gone.

Perhaps you’ll think
me foolish but I picked
the bare stems
anyway.