Interior

 

 

‘Dad,
Are you mad?’
He often asked—
When he was little

And then basked in the
Warmth of a smile
Which said,
'No son.'
‘Just thinking.’

Now old,
He looks
At the mirror
And sees the
‘Just thinking’
As interior,
A bit sad,

And carrying
The weight of
Simile,
Of those things
Gone,
Undone
And choices
Impervious to loss.
 
 
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