The cold room

Pa looks at the newspaper
I flip the pages of my novel,
No one is reading a thing.
A minute later he flips the channels
And I start typing a text,
No one is doing a thing.
One minute he grunts
As if to clear his throat;
I look at the ceiling
Seeing nothing at all.
The clock says past twelve –
No one says a thing.

We steal looks at each other
No one says a thing.
Though it's hot outside
The room is cold;
Our hearts are cold.
Mine is colder
The past starts haunting me
– again.