~FRANNIE LINDSAY~

MERCIES

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Blue leather slippers under his bed;
cup full of licorice; ice chips in a pitcher;
daughter, grown thin, still propping his head;
 
large-print novels, his wedding picture;
the African violet his nurse meant to water;
postcards sent every week of the winter;

the days he crossed off in red magic marker:
April. May. Now the wind’s apnea
runs out of paper:
  
day book—the French masters—
closed on his dresser.

   

© by Frannie Lindsay