↓

Stay

for DB

Dad was up when I got home.
He knew where I’d snuck off to
but asked me anyhow. “What is that:
makeup? Glitter? Lipstick? This
is really you? My boy? You smell.” He leaned
in close and sniffed. “You smell like gardenias.”

I didn’t say a word, and when at last
he really heard my silence, yawned,
and let me, I climbed his creaky stairs,
lay down, and watched the next-door
beer-sign blink, its green and yellow
bouncing off my bedroom ceiling.

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John Lawson teaches writing at Robert Morris University in Pittsburgh. His poetry and plays have been published in many online and print venues including Paper Street and Main Street Rag, and his poetry collection, Generations, was published by St. Andrews College Press in 2007.