The father raps his knuckles on the underside of the ice. The knocking is the son. The footsteps are the second son. Leg braces for the pacings. Pressed against the tremble.
Exhaustion fumes the static headlines.
Feeds the pet peeves. As not's false containment. Bus-rumble the early labors. Rhymes the waking hours. Spite's harpoon tethered to the dailies.