My eyes on
the tongue of my father’s
shoe - beat up, black patent
leather. It faces me.
Somewhere above me
is my father, his other
shoe tossed against the
wall. I imagine it has left
a black smudge. I am
not looking at the black
smudge. I cannot look
anywhere but at his worn-out
shoe. Its sides reflect
me. Its sole is pulling away from
the body. Over me,
father’s weight presses
with the ting-ting-ting of his
loose and floppy belt-buckle against his
service revolver. He removes it
deftly, like a serious student sharpening his
pencil for an exam.

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