Truthfully, aliens might invade without us
noticing, in the corner of the eye, as someone
sits over a gin in a bar. They’d be in the woods
owning occasional twig snaps like owls, in a bright
yellow painted house seen but never found again.
They could be so different our minds can’t
take them in, adding them to our lists of unexplained
sounds, asking what pulled the ivy from the window
when there was little wind. I didn’t lift my eyes
as my father pushed my toys out of the way
with his feet and carried on. I hope he found
comfort and wasn’t lost, but will never know
what jealousy or wonder he contemplated, asleep
behind the wheel of the car in a parking lot, which
would have left me feeling like one can in a factory.
Returning from the mall with my mother, I’d freeze,
there being no polite way to wake him, except
knocking and breaking his simplicity, raindrops
held at bay on the windshield, his head leaning
on the car door window, as though below ice.
