by Michael Catherwood

I see him through the dark lenses
Of fog, the apparition gently sliding
Out of view, the windows of my home
Running with sweat.
______________I see him Fridays
At the jukebox, the selection a happy
Mexicali tune, his lively feet tapping
Behind the curtain.
______________I see him standing
In junkyards, holding a toolbox,
The wet oil like camouflage smeared
Across his arms and face.
__________________I see him in x-rays
Of my pancreas, a small lump of protest
Rising and falling like a whale’s exposed flank.

I see him in the brightest light
Against the sunset, the red flash
Of his anger softening and turning into a blush.

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