Where’s Dad (A Trickster Poem)

Where’s dad?
My daughter says,
standing halfway up
the stairs in her snow-
white pajama gown rubbing
the crust from her good-
morning time eyes.
I don’t know, says my
son who’s sitting on
the couch, taking
advantage of my absence
with his head buried in
his phone.

She whines a little and
scurries down the stairs


run and jump on the couch.

I’ve been hiding on
the ceiling, in fact
I am the ceiling, and
roof, draping over them,
suppressing a chuckle.

As the silence lingers, I
cascade down the walls
and become the couch and
floor too. Still,
they don’t know
and the calm

silence scatters like sand in
an ocean of sand, and turns to

I can’t help it,
I know I should tell
them, but they’re
sitting on me, for
god’s sake, they should
know I’m here,
they should know
I’m here. They
should know.

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