I

I like to be with no lights on.

In a mustard arm chair, my father sleeps

diagonal from me in the living room.

In his hands, promises bound in paperback

by glue offering alternative cures

to the ailments that took my mother.

In the foreground, Woody Allen.

II

I am in a theatre,

dressed in black heels

and tights, the arch of my foot

wet from the waterway of snow

outside. My ticket, a gift from a man

sixteen years my senior.

He sits next to me,

touches my thigh.

February is

the snowiest month in Chicago.

III

Beneath ground, you can smell

the urine. It is both homely

and not. Behind me,

a man begins to masturbate.

The train stops

two blocks past my home.

IV

My father sits on tainted linen,

unwashed since I last visited.

He asks about my day,

without waiting for an answer

he tells me to listen:

folic acid

and fish oil.

My father does not leave home.