Thursday, February 25, 2010


Soggy mustached gloom
sits like a chess piece.
Wise to avoid
eye contact, feet contact
and all the contacts
in between.
Yellow stained
fingers, dead against
the yellow strip,
he takes only his generic
transparent grocery bag.
A box of “feminine products”
signifies nothing
to anyone, except
to the daughter I am
and once was.
For five rainy
stops, I am sitting,
warmed by his checkmate.
If only you
were still around
to pick up my pieces,
the queen:
never as important
as the father figure.

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