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Old
Legs
There is panic in a place
of work.
Some run but most stand by
in dumb frozen shock.
The gray, mature man dies
lying in paperwork. Fits
and foams.
He becomes numb and watches
his feet twitch for the last time.
Thinks of the places they’ve taken him.
The little boy toddles by
him
and with his tiny legs, red shoes,
he climbs the stairs of the house
that he lived in as a child.
His eyes don’t close,
they cloud over
there is a peace he’s never known.
It fades to black then for a brief
moment, everything becomes clear
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Breakfast in Paris
Hair well combed,
moisturized face,
looking and smelling of a fragrance from Italy.
Combined with my features, I am
the perfect mother’s son. The image of me.
I have images of you in
Paris somewhere,
a leisurely breakfast, croissant and coffee,
possibly writing or painting before
a gentleman escorts you home.
But then, that’s not the
picture
played out for you, my mentor.
You were snared by the skilled,
sly hunt’s man and his peacock’s
perfect military uniform
and you
were secretly given your family.
You once cried for what could have been,
and it shook my world at 5 years old.
But now here I am, almost
as old
as you were then, that morning
cooking our breakfast in tears,
as my older sister comforted you.
Sitting here in Asia, I
think of you.
I write all I’ve done, ask how you are and
address it to your Paris apartment,
but of course, it will never be sent.
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