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Sep 2015
He was unbothered
by conversation in the kitchen.
He sits tightly, legs up
on the lounge chair,
tossed to the side
facing away from words
between his mother and wife.

His spine sinking heavier beneath
the cross-patterned blanket
as he turns only his head sideways
at me.

His slouching, glassy eyes
spoke with his lips,
slowly separating,
“Please hold my hand”

I blinked.
Wedding band touched my skin--
those masculine diamonds embedded,
I glance.  His head drops;

One ear hugged by faux leather.
He ignores the trees seated
outside our bay window
or the seemingly distant
but not silent footsteps
of Julian piling up and pushing
those blocks.

His chest fires upward
and I listen to his exhale shake,
grasping his hand tighter.

“When I was a teenager
I used to think I could use memories
as a means to time travel…”
He’s shifting and sweating
but the house is cool.

Sweetly and softly, he sings,
“It was psychotic, really.”
S K Garcia
Written by
S K Garcia  Chicago
(Chicago)   
679
   Mike Essig
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