16 (For My Father) Poem by Jesse Russell
16 (For My Father)
he was telling me today
how you'd sit
facing the street
every orange morning.
in your yellow chair
with white hair
and white cup
of black coffee.
elbows on your knees
hands folded,
your coal fingers
holding a single cigarette.
one long drag...
and you'd let the fire burn
itself out
to the skin
staring into smoldering space
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
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