Prisoners of the Storm

Self Portrait in Green

 


A white kitten
gave to me

by the old
woman
who always
sat in her
garden
and always
stank
of roses
and
wisteria.

That night it
stormed and
the kitten
cried.

It got on Daddy’s
nerves, he said, so
he put the kitten
outside
on the porch
in the rain.

The next
morning
I found it wet
and silent
where it had

fallen through a
hole in the wood.

I wrapped it
in towels

and sat with it
by a heater

and held it
while it

shivered until
it died.

What can I say
to you Daddy,
now as dead
as my kitten?

I did not give
you the honor
of a Son’s
good-bye…

Somehow, I kept
that storm in my
mind

And locked you
into it


(c) Robert Goldstein 2014-2017

 

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