Sweat beads on his forehead
from equal parts humidity
and stress
His hair wisely flows from brown to new hints of grey
?revealing his age and his situation?
He meanders down the street
towards what he calls "home"
A mid-tier apartment still in the midst of a several-year-long paint job
musty with the fog of cigarette smoke
erupting with tension of husband and wife
neutralized by the pride of a son, 7 years old

Her closet is empty
the chipped white paint shone
where her favorite blouse used to hang
Half of the bed pristine
It mocks his ruffled side
The refrigerator has vacancy
only a quarter-gallon of milk remains
?he can tell its curdled?
as the fumes leak out of the unsealed cap
and infiltrate his nostrils
?The door is closed ?with a malicious thud

He's been living like this for weeks
surviving, barely, ?paycheck to paycheck?
odd job to odd job
supporting his apple
that has, by the grace of God
fallen very far from the tree
?Prosperous, opportunistic, intelligent
describe not him
but rather his son
To not provide for him
would forfeit a gift?

And so he presses on, valiantly
new opportunities await him
buried beneath hard work and persistence
and he can smell them
He works to better himself, but he struggles
like trying to sprint through an ocean filled with seaweed

Like the tide
over the next few flips of his vintage car calendar
his fortune turns
He finds his opportunities
and rides them to success

He does it for himself
and for his son
They flourish
no longer sleeping on park benches
and inside subway bathrooms
that giggled at their misfortune
He used to quiet them with a blow from his knuckles
Now he rests quietly in a hotel bed he shares with his son

He discards the chapter of his former life
and begins to think of a title for his new one