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Apr 2017
The old man stands in bare feet
on the composite floor,
gnawing on raw potatoes;
a crypt of tenderness
behind a barrier of
golden baby teeth
and thin wire rims.
He swallows ardently
pushing whole potatoes,
passed a sixty-year-old
clog in his throat.

One day, that tenderness
will drop like lead
from his mouth;
each word
cratering in the softest earth
“I’m trying.”

One day, on the back
of his blood
he’ll remind me;
with a mouthful of lead
and a snarl,
he will urge me to run.
Katherine
Written by
Katherine  San Francisco, CA
(San Francisco, CA)   
463
   --- and Harley Hucof
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