If I Were a Poet

Having squandered his fortune in a foreign land,
today he bows to the inevitable.
On the long ride back from the airport
conversation is strained.
“Son, it’s been ages… you look good…”
“Dad, you know I don’t. How’s mom?”
“You didn’t get my e-mail?”

Just the sound of windshield wipers.

He tries again.
“It’s nice to see you.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yeah. You’re right. It’s not.”

Then just the sound of rain.