If she wasn’t there
he’d sit in his look-a-like
leather chair
a silver flute becomes a tin whistle
just waiting
his face looks like a rubber mask
casting a strange impression
drooping eyes
a blink away from slumber
hearing black wings flapping
too tired to get up and see
he’d rather drink a dream’s vintage wine
his eyes are closed
but he’s not sleeping
a feature attraction playing
on the back of his lids
there he is a pin-skinny lad
I see him smiling
his loving mother
and true grit dad
a short stunted laugh
channels scanning the past
his wife and kids
fading from the picture
seeing things
he should not have done
death and taxes
the reel of life
caught red-handed
in black and white
