Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Stick Stuck

The walking stick, my brother
carved, fits my palm
and thumb.

The hole, in the sole
of my cowboy boot,
is the size of the silver dollar
I sent my grandson.

The bathroom door, after
three years of shaves and showers,
locked from the inside.

I have a prison date.
The gate is one thing,
the heart quiet,
quite another.

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