My Son, the Adult
He sometimes peeks thru
the slats of his venetian blind
with fingers and eyes.
Off his side porch, seeds
fall to the ground,
Close to its edges, he never mowed the grass,
and thistle sometimes grew inside,
but he chastised us if he did not see us playing.
So we put up a fence
all around the back of it, made a play yard
in which to play house.
“From even the most recalcitrant material,”
he was fond of telling himself,
“you must make a life.”
Eric Burke works as a computer programmer in Columbus, Ohio. Recent work can be found in elimae, decomP, kill author, Right Hand Pointing, qarrtsiluni, A cappella Zoo, and Weave Magazine. You can read his blog athttp://anomalocrinus.blogspot.com/
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