My dead parents’ stuff
occupies my home and mind.
Unsorted, it waits.
Guilt
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My dead parents’ stuff
occupies my home and mind.
Unsorted, it waits.
My dead parents’ stuff
occupies my home and mind.
Unsorted, it waits.
Umbilical cord
cut they grow reattached to
digital cable.
Popcorn caffeine for
the friend whose mom is dying
comfort food TV.
Their lives loves failures
all source material for
future film projects.
Couplings and breakups
compelled by senior year some
begin others end.
With no school Monday
so much high drama surrounds
turning seventeen.
He seemed shy. Passive.
Then she said no. His anger
Insisted on yes.
It’s the quiet ones
you have to watch out for when
they don’t get their way.
I worry for her.
Her safety – his obsession –
cannot coexist.