My inheritance is an empty house

Poetry by Foster W. Donnell

My father is stumbling around in the basement again.
I can hear the soles of his black leather wingtips
Skimming across the concrete floor.
What is he doing down there
At the hour of the night when
The world tires of itself
And the stars are lost in the clouds.
I hear my father mumbling.
He does not remember where
He keeps the past. Does he forget
The day we buri…