by George Anderson
He dies slowly by degrees
as if each breath is his last
his lungs shithouse after decades
of smoking & foundry work
attached to his oxygen machine
each strangulated snort a reprieve.
He sits there on his bed, his eyes
darkening, ‘Why do you live way
the fuck down there?’ he asks.
I shrug my shoulders. Beats me.
I guess I like the weather. I don’t
tell him how I like being away from
family. How they screw your mind.
How they limit you. He struggles
to sit up on his bed positioned by the
back door. He can’t make it upstairs
anymore. ‘Don’t get too fucken fat’,
he cautions, his belly flopping over
his pants. Later in the night I sit at
the kitchen table in the dark & stare
at the red light of his monitor, the old man
sucking, gasping for each goddamn breath.
- Back Home
- AFTER THE HOUSE OF GHOSTS
- The Desert
- On Roads Beyond Hell
- What Children Know
- Like Dead Rabbits Burning on the End of a Cigarett...
- bee of good cheer
- McDonald’s Job Interview
- on the day Robert Parker died
- Snow Bound
- one over the left shoulder
- How He Became A Ghost
- ANN FRANKING IT
- My 7th grade French Teacher
- AT THE EDGE
- dried food, weapons
- walking tape recorders
- IN THIS HOUSE WHERE THE PHONE RINGS RARELY
- 'Everyday Asymptote'
- BECAUSE I WAS NEVER
- THE E MAIL PHOTO OF COVE POINT
- Edge Lyric # 6
- This Broken Doorstep
- Rumba Man
- ▼ January (34)