I always thought I would treat time
that way: easy to hold as ash.
Now I sit by my window after dark
and wait for the doorknob to turn.
You’d think they’d have found
me by now. There are unsettling
cracks in the store bought century.
1971: My dad is on a comedown
kicking the dirt on the side of the freeway
with a plastic gun in his belt.
1991: He drives the white Toyota
towards Duncan. On the steel bridge
over Golden River a semi enters
his lane too soon. He moves right
sees sparks, his knuckles let go
the barricade ends.
Like painted birds or homespun sins
I am better off abandoned.
One morning you will wake to find
all the shit stains you’ve monopolized
look like they could be anyone’s.
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