slipping

 

 

Slipping

She is bleak in the skin of solitude,
Human bridges fail to stand.
Teensie is caring for her father.
Many days he is 91 and sharp
with the car repairs.
People still bring them around.
The window that will not lift
with the push of a button,
the door a deer dented, that will not shut.
That sound in the motor, a thud,
dull with warning.
Her father is near sighted and aloof.
The customers believe he is lost in thought.
He stares at the cars a long time.
Teensie knows something is missing.
He touches his tools without thinking,
Yesterday he was thirteen, building
a go cart from a lawn mower.
He is ready to leave for a war,
Teensie can not come close to.
At night she is obsessed
with double checking the doors.
Any moment he may slip
from one bridge to the other,
leaving both of them stranded
in the skin of solitude.

 

 

 

Reviews

[James Paulin]

What a sensitive respectful reflection. I felt the admiration and love throughout the poem. Beautifully done!

[cest la vie]

Wonderfully written about a heartbreaking subject..
I always enjoy reading your work very much :))

[Emily B]

oh . . . those paths are so slippery . . . keep close watch on those doors

[Ed Hart]

you pen surrounds even the sad things, always the true things...