Scraped little knees upon a patterned sofa,

Take the position waiting for father,

Eyes, desperately searching the road for his presence,

Through a window, metal, thin, shielding no cold,

or wind, just rain and some transparency,

a minimal function, like the missing parts, a mist.

Waiting for his return.

The small boy hopes and prays it will be today.   

 

 

 

“God gives a home to the forsaken”

Psalm 68