He is –
Murky breaths and midnight toenails
Perfect Tai Chi in between the walls
Headlight free and Sunday solid
He bends I told you so’s into spoons
– made in his mother’s image.
Silent in a father’s absence.
Light feet on cold floors
Old dreams starting new wars
Nothing in a name –
He’d like to ask. He doesn’t.
– but shame. Woven into brickwork clusters.
Filling in cardboard carpets and red flags.
A dented screen, a captured queen.
A ticking secret on the other end of an Instagram like.
Prompt: Free write Friday.