Telling My Father

I found him on the porch that morning,

sipping cold coffee, watching a crow

dip down from the power line into the pile

of black bags stuffed in the dumpster

where he pecked and snagged a can tab,

then carried it off, clamped in his beak

like the key to a room only he knew about.

My father turned to me then, taking in

the reek of my smoke, traces of last night's

eyeliner I decided not to wipe off this time.

Out late was all he said. And then smiled,

rubbing the small of my back through the robe

for a while, before heading inside, letting

the storm door click shut behind him.

Later, when I stepped into the kitchen,

I saw it waiting there on the table-a glass

of orange juice he had poured for me and left

sweating in a patch of sunlight so bright

I couldn't touch it at first.