Sitting down, like he always does, Crossed legs, coffee mug in his right and Bread in his left. Except his seat stays cold, Wood holding the shape of him, Not the weight. Moving forward, slowly, praying.. Let it be real I set his cup by the sink, Wipe a ring that isn’t there, The bread goes hard on the plate. I rehearse his good morning, Sitting in his rocking chair, Playing the memories nonstop in my brain And I ask, Am I the only one who misses him?