At the Braai With My Father

The tongs keep time—two clicks to mark a pause.
The wors decides its curl; a flare says “wait.”
He asks if I’ve been keeping; smoke now makes
sense of late replies—how slow it climbs, goes.
The dog completes a circle; ash forgets
and falls. “They paying on time?” “Mostly do.”
He sights the grid, to check it level still,
then shifts a piece that didn’t ask to move.
Between the clicks a question almost stands,
then sits. We watch the pool accept a leaf.
A neighbour laughs the way a gate complains.
He says, “Don’t tamp the fire. Let it breathe.”
I nod as if I learned it minutes back,
and let the evening draw a careful thread.