hand on my heart
words to an old song
come pouring back
kin packed and gone
a wrinkled black dress
alone on the bed


trading secret recipes
and gossip
retired at last
heeding the call of the wild
from a recliner
was that a crow
or another floater
in my bad eye
screen door —
his whistle arrives
ahead of him
smoking
a lucky strike —
dad unfiltered
You must be logged in to post a comment.