Interior With Seated Man

It's a still picture, portrait
of a man in a ladderback chair,
hickory bark seat,
the chair on its back legs, the man
reading, something small, a book.

The light is the yellow of kerosene.
All else obscure,
except the haloed man,
head bent, reading.

I can tell you that it's the north wall
he leans against, by the dark window,
and I am to the southeast
where the kitchen door would be
if I knew the kitchen door.

I know that he is he, a center, heavy
in his gravitational pull, and I am not he,
a satellite. I am only eyes. I have
no words, not even Daddy.