My father knows what work is

I see it in the droopy bags of his tired eyes
and the cracks of his hands
running deep like rivers
I think it’s our way to be always working
searching for fortunes hard to come by
Along the way, dreams are deferred
goals are shifted for something closer to home
and the real-estate man becomes a security guard
returns to taxi-driving
We aren’t too good with emotions, my father and I
this life’s too harsh for the weak
but the cab he drives has many scars that tell many tales:
a jagged hole in the seat marks the passage
of a passenger who refused to pay
a smashed mirror tells of another
I think there was a broken windshield once—
I didn’t get to see it—
but I, like him, stay mute and see red

— Ikè Nwankpa