His Dad’s specialty—
charcoal-flamed chili burger
followed by bad news.
Mouthful of gravel,
rock dropped in a hole, his Mom
squeezing his hand hard
as if to get tears
out of him. He wouldn’t play
any of their games.
His room a gray pit.
She knocked all day, then slipped in
for dirty dishes.
His cellphone’s smothered
metallic buzz—can’t find it
or maybe he checks
then listens later
to Dad’s brand-new chipper voice.
Delete. Or he checks
in his sleep, then rolls
away to stare at the wall
for a few more years.
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