Day 1374

…His is the laugh of misery
Of elders left to bake in the sun
Crying feeble for a wife who will not answer
A son who does not care
A hand that cannot reach
His is the shrug of opportunity wasted
Of floundered comfort days
Of fearing rent be met with effort
All those conversations about the weather
His is gait of cement and stillness
Not enough sand between the toes
Too many pebbles shook from boots
Of boots too heavy to lift ones feet properly
The drag of rubber on sterile supermarket linoleum
His is the posture of regret
Of unmet expectation and uncalled relatives
Of sitting in the dark waiting for a laugh to float through the door way
Of never opening the door…


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