"'V' as in 'Victory'," he tells the receptionist
through my telephone. The flower beds
I helped him build last spring
stand empty and waiting for Indian summer.
"I'm trying to find my wife," he continues.
You and me both, and my old man goes on:
"Room Number 12? Thank you."
The kid saw the ambulance
while playing in the neighbor's yard
but didn't decipher the same thing I can't.
Maybe they're marigolds.
Maybe magnolias.
My mother never told me the difference.
Currently reading:
"Catch-22" by Joseph Heller.
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