My daughter says I can do nothing,

she’ll go when she’s ready, late is late,

and she’s right. Eighteen now,

she hopes never to see me again.

No threats land. No punishments bite.

My wife warns her steakhouse shifts

will end if this drags on.

Her words dissolve like cheap sauce.

I stand at the kitchen window,

watching my girl become a leaf

ripped loose in high wind,

tumbling down the block

while I’m already boxed,

a hush of bone and dust

quiet in the velvet dark.

Matter doesn’t ask permission.

It loosens, drifts, rejoins

the long shrug of time and space

where everything flares out

and everything folds in.

The tree keeps throwing new leaves.

The wind keeps practicing its theft.

I keep paying the light bill,

loading the dishwasher,

telling the dog he’s a good boy.

Here’s the joke I finally get,

grinning in the coffin of my skin:

I spent years trying to steer her

toward some version of success,

only to learn the real inheritance,

this beautiful, ordinary wreck

of showing up anyway,

loving what won’t be saved,

and vanishing on schedule

like everybody else.