It has grown commonplace.
It has grown hushed, muted sadness through
cassette tapes you refuse to toss.
It seems, you have run out of time, minutes move
quicker than quiet seconds arise and it makes less than
any sense. Refrains discharge emotions, clinging
to your troubled mourning like static on Egyptian
cotton. You force the sounds of nostalgia to
ring through ear drums exempt from infancy's misery;
Daddy does not love you, and Kenny G’s saxophone abates
in easing familial throbbing.
You recite the number mother wrote in your lunchbox
with a grape-scented marker: 818 882-2550, and
realize the line’s been disconnected since 1989.
Perhaps it is time to bury the truth, stopping the
harsh beats. You have ridden your tricycle down
Sunnybrae knoll, and your parents are farther
away than they appear.
Elementary discomfort will remain adhered, as nothing can
unwind twisted cassette threads to labor in ministering
selfless tears the same.
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