He’s a fast walker in his steel-tip boots
and backpack carrying the dinner he’ll eat
at 2 am. I keep up with him, walking eight
steps behind like the Indian women from Punjab
Davisville Road darkens. A chip of a
moon follows us on the left, so high
my neck cracked when I looked up at it
the same moon I watched from the Country
Squire back in Cleveland, Dad at
the wheel, cigarette dangling
Catastrophes as yet unknown, Dad’s death,
my kidney transplant, massacres of the
innocents we watch on huge living room
TVs while snacking on Doritos, that burn
A ramp is being constructed. Smell the
wood! But why? Whose legs have given
out? Oh, let us mourn for that pair
of legs – did diabetes have its way
with them – that damn autoimmune disease?
I will sit with you a while, I say to Scott, until
the train comes. A squirrel scampers from
the trash can, as Scott and I touch knees
and talk about how late the train will be.
The passengers had no idea how close
they came to death.
An investigator found cracks underneath that are being sutured together like the faulty pump of the aorta.
Hold on, man,
Ruth Z. Deming, a psychotherapist, has had her work published in lit mags including The Legendary, Literary Yard, Mad Swirl and Writing Disorder. She lives in Willow Grove, PA, a suburb of Philadelphia. She runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder and their loved ones. Her blog is http://www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com/