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Sep 142014
 

by Dan Leach

 

My childhood’s a hum,

hiding my father’s garage.

I can hear it

in the summer

on those evenings

when I visit.

 

Afraid of forgetting,

he held on to everything:

memories stuffed

into unmarked boxes,

shelves bent

beneath their burden.

 

When the old man

takes his place

beneath the TV’s glow

and the lull of another game

makes heavy his lids,

 

I come here

to listen

for something

that I lost,

something close to happiness.