Spotlight on the Navajo throw. Other 

nighttimes. The bed against the other wall:

“The cold, having snared the blanket from my 

shoulder, is getting colder; coerces

me with stranger’s hands. My bedside rubbers 

fold.” Slave to labor, treasures he can't lift;

a father’s public persona cries his 

need for a private life: “Older now than

Dad was when he was my age, I can still

see clear across the leafless park and track 

a single snowflake through the streetlight light 

without getting out of bed.” The sunstruck  

brick wall – buff, blush pink; framed by sash and stool

and blind – is a window in its own right.