And if I stare comes the window rattle with the road
a seat springs metal and his hand, his grip on the wheel like mine holding this photo
Truck in the grass
the doors slam heavy and imperfect
cinnamon from the house as he boots up wood steps behind me and calls me kid
Rope rounds the tree branch
hanging on a swing
while he meals inside on the big table
it smells like water here, a washed breeze
These afternoons collect into one I can remember from the black and white where bright sun fades us in the foreground
Back on the road the outside whistles its way in as we go
wondering if my knuckles will ever be that hairy.
Categories: Microfiction · Micropoetry · Serial
It was the year of peace and parking lot runaways, I rode in the backseat with Dad fisting get a job and Mom muttering shrill to stop.
Dad raised me on the no son of mine diet of don’ts. No son of mine cries but I did, and Dad flipped a loud newspaper while Mom snuck me coco.
They said he built it all himself,
a ground up guy
From nothing rose Dad
And when proud
his big block hands pat me
awkward on the head
Mom urged Dad to throw ball with me, but he stayed heavy in his chair, and she took to windy sighs in my direction whenever he was around.
Mom came home with a gypsy girl to feed. Dad read and I kept quiet because through her thin white shirt was the round of my first nipple.
Categories: Microfiction · Micropoetry · Serial
