Static

January 22, 2016

P1120303

The note he seeks lies buried

among other notes, some stapled together,

the years collapsing.

Scraps lay scattered like his thoughts –

drifting into piles, getting lost

beneath therapists’ schedules.

Two cars sit

side by side in the garage, with another

in the drive. He asks his doctor, “Can I

do emergency driving?”

“No.”

“Maybe my dermatologist will say yes.

It’s in my legs…”

At 90.7,

where is the path to clarity?

Does it follow the path of love?

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