He would sit under the kitchen table
About an hour before each mid-week transfer.
Clockwork.
Just sit, wrapped up in himself.
Quietly, not even petulantly.
Resignation in the set of his shoulders,
A look in his eyes
Not of sadness, but worse,
Surrender.
Always be a poet. Even in prose.
— Charles Baudelaire.
In essence I am a storyteller who writes poems. Put simply, I write the poems I want to read.[…]
Nothing Gold Can Stay: A Mother
and Father Remembered.
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A sequence of my poems has been published in a hardcover book entitled The Music of Leaving Poems by Tricia McCallum
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One Response
stunning and beautiful, overwhelming, not beautiful—so sad, heart wrenching, a sense of helplessness when faced with such a child….thank you for sharing this, Tricia….