Baby Face

Dad’s on nights,

No need for creeping.

Instead, I wait, eyes on the hill built of shadows.

My baby face reflection in the glass.

A mirror image I’ve always hated.

Reminds me too much of her.

She, the going rather than the tough.

I, the tears and begging.

He, stone in her Medusa stare.

We muddle on Dad and I.

Never spilling our guts for the other to inspect.

Silence is our Nirvana.

The baby face is my invitation to their world.

Dad doesn’t question, only says “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry old man,” I say.

“I’m made of Teflon.”

He laughs at that.

His expression revealing the age he really is.

A shooting star in a drab sky.

The baby face keeps my hands clean.

I’m grateful for this.

It’s not the path I designed for myself

But life isn’t straight, is it?

Well, not for us,

Not down here in the mud laden trenches,

Where life has no value.

Not like them over there on the hill,

Who play at being gods,

Moving us at their whim, chess pieces on an insignificant board.

Yet all gods must fall,

As death follows life,

As all believers come face to face with doubt.

A baby face wins trust.

And trust can always be broken.