and the appeal of me will quickly leave
their faces– these old beer-drunks
donned in white Pro Club shirts,
baggy Levis, and unforgiving
eyes that have cut too many lines–
flowing blood, they tell me,
is an open challenge
they’re all bulls, chasing red cloaks, and the appeal
of me will fade– like smoke climbing sky,
everyone of them loved, loved, loved my dad– and I promise
I don’t share enough of his qualities to withstand
the nuances of their bullshit. no, my patience
is a limp body thrown down a set of stairs– emptied
or getting there. and the appeal of me
has already walked– so please just let me leave.
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