In my dreams
I can still smell the cigarette smoke
Wafting in my direction
A metallic hang-wire chair
The ramblings of Asian drunkards
Potted bird’s eye chili plants, severely overwatered
Pigeons and their insatiable appetites
Gathering in front of our porch
The sun reflecting off our pitch-black door
Rusting from age and wear alike
A midday in the summer
Sweltering, but they talk without rest
They shout without rest
And laugh without rest
War stories, youthful yarn, tales of the homeland
And an empty cup
“Son, can you pour me another?”
Fresh tea, hot and ready to serve
Made by yours truly
A grin, a smile,
And a pat on the back
“Thank you, son.”
“He’s a good kid, isn’t he?”
Of course, I am
“Of course, he is.”
You were my father after all
“He is my son after all.”
Merpdo Stories 