from here, leaning out

      beyond their yard.

They are fence-prone

and rubber-necked.

Looking in,

maybe.

I sense a vulturish curiosity

and sink back.

Meanwhile,

my dad has fallen asleep on the couch.

He is darker than

I remember,

has more brown spots

and silver near the temples.

His head has fallen

out of his hand,

oil-slicked forehead

slack

against the armrest.

It’s sunny.

I want to close the blinds.

As I get up

and pass through the room,

a chilly wind

sweeps up dust and loose hairs.

For all the loveliness

of July,

something deathly creeps up my throat,

an insectile lurk

behind my tongue.

“I heard a Fly buzz”

and so forth.

I sprint up the stairs,

telling myself

I’m not scared, per se.

It’s more like a plea—

as in, who knows:

     the steady billow of curtains,

     the weight behind half-closed doors,

     the secret of cold winds on a warm day.