Saturday, April 30, 2011


His little cave of an office was made darker

by oak paneling from the Seventies, flickering

fluorescent lights framed in water damaged

ceiling panels and battleship gray carpeting.

Papers, catalogues, manuals sat on top of

the refrigerator, shelves, cabinets, and in piles

on hit beat up old brown desk. A tired man,

he sighs deeply when he looks around his place.

And people wonder why I don’t take vacations,

is what he says as I stare at a dusty stuffed marlin.

When I tell him about how my father passed away

just a few years ago, he becomes silent and must’ve

wondered if it really mattered if his body shop was

open next week or if he was in the Florida Keys.

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