The last drag on the cigarette ocean, break is over,  

get back to work. The ocean of the ember’s tunnel

through a rag of snow, and then the ocean of another

three hours waiting tables at the family restaurant.

The ocean of lunch buffet, followed by the ocean

of closing, the ocean of sleep in your idle pickup

for an hour, then the ocean of opening for dinner

at dusk. The thirty dollars in tips ocean. The ocean

of your hunger. The seventeen-minute drive home

you could do asleep ocean, have done a dozen times

gin-blind ocean. The ocean of what if tonight he doesn’t—?

and then the ocean of arrival. The ocean of your father

on the corduroy couch, bad leg propped up, cursing

at a ball game. The ocean of the curse he turns on you.

The ocean of it dazzling the air. The quiet ocean.

The ocean of the look you share. The ocean of his eye

and the ocean of his other eye. The ocean of the night sky

that breaks against the kitchen window, where the ocean

of your two reflections fuse and drown the storm glass.