He veers bent over
like a has-been Southern mayor
or a crippled parsnip
and toddles into Wal-Mart
"for just a couple things"
on a gray Monday afternoon
past the dented cars
and homeless shopping carts
left for dead on the outskirts
of the mall.
Air sticky as flour
and desolate as bruised
peaches leaking
juices onto his hands
from tenements stacked
next to purple plums
hard as stone,
this still life reflects
back at the old man
making his way
through the onions
and rhubarb
and chard.
Outside, behind the steering
wheel of my parked car,
I wait for dad and write
down these lines
before our wordless
drive home.
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