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No Longer Like My Father
There are lines I cannot write.
Curved, my father
slumped in the black task
chair, fading in and out
of a conversation
with his son. And someone at the door
ushered in some sense, some
settlement.
Before the confession,
I offered a father and son
night on the town.
"Sounds like a winner,"
he said, not able to keep
his head up
or the promise in three days.
And on my knees
elbows carried the heavy
head in the hands of the boy.
And to my wife
priestess
I made mention five words:
a line
I cannot write.
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