The Bowl

The still air stabbed by foreign words.
"I hate you, daddy."
Its dull thunder rumbled through
his humbled body
and left
as an uninvited guest.

A distant star dimmed.

Feeble eyes darted
to regain
focus.
Guilt replaced the drained blood.

("Didshereallymeanthat?
WhathaveIdonewrong?
IseverythingItouchruined?
Sheshouldbepunished!
Butruinthisfragilelovetoo?
and,and...")

The star brightened.

"You know, sweetness,
I would probably hate my daddy too
if he didn't let me have
my fourth bowl of ice cream!"

Their duet of unbridled bouquets
of laughter
squealed from the carpeted floor.