R/ckets and S/ntries

sentimental delivery says dad. dad may be sleeping. it may be all night. it's okay. it's just a toss and turn. literature goes to great lengths, and there we are. the invention of words, way back on tuesday, was nice and the comfort. then it was a picture, almost a lighthouse. what sort of thunder enters by the door, then, souring milk and making the cat nervous? is it so frank of one to ask? everything seems to manifest something, then we all take notes. can anything be simpler? if writing it all down helps, and dad feels better, can we return to a moment of rest? are our poetries feasible? what are the aliens to do, when we seem so uninstructed? all these questions, of course, sell short. it's like telling your best friend that the wash is done. even dad can be nervous in this system of mud spatters. no one has spoken to the sentries yet. our day is not done.