that lines my uncle's fire pit
I put myself in the kid's shoes.
When I was his age
there were cousins to chase
in the basement before dinner.
All he's got at almost eight
is a brother who's watching him
char up his hands
with a stick he's pulled
from the embers.
We say our goodbyes.
He's been well behaved.
On the ride home he sleeps
on the plastic tray of leftovers.
I hope that tomorrow
when he wakes to soak the day
the smoke smell on his hands
reminds him of our blaze.
Currently reading:
"The Hemingway Patrols" by Terry Mort.
No comments:
Post a Comment