Losing It
Ashen, stooped, stalled by hypochondria,
Only as good as his last bowel movement,
Face appearing drowned in babyhood again,
Father would haunt the bay window, mother
Escaped to town for an hour or so.
Looking out for her return, he would wave
At almost anyone, beckoning to them
To come in. Some did, and mother would find them,
Total strangers, telling father how great he was,
And father, weeping, with his glass raised.
Page(s) 22
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