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