All conversations aren’t worded,

When I Skype with my father.

We are just comfortable in our own silences,

While he catches a game on the TV,

Knowing I’m at the other end of the line.

As I punch out my assignments,

He hears a furious click click click,

Sometimes a monosyllabic grunt

Acknowledging each other,

While he’ll pose a random query

And I give a delayed answer.

But there is no hurry,

As he watches men rush behind a ball

And After a while I say,

“Dad, I’ve got to go, will talk tomorrow”

Or perhaps share another comfortable silence