Father

Words drip slow, through the cracks between his crooked teeth. A southern draw that rolls steady and modest. He claims ancestry of Faulkner, I have never believed him. Tobacco sits complacent in a bulge under his lip. Dirty habits. Dirty habits. A 5'oclock shadow that can't tell time. The hair on his knuckles curl and his hair parts deep to his scalp. A face of trial. A face of error. A face of age. My face someday.