Playing
with my favorite toy,
A
final gift from both of you,
A
consolation from your trip to Paris,
A respite
meant to rekindle the flame
That
sloughed children instead of ashes,
An
ambulance that careened away
From
everything it touched.
Until
it tangled with your ivy once too often
And
you took your turn.
When
you finished,
My
ambulance needed an ambulance of its own.
Broken
by the floor,
Unmended
by an apology,
It only
ran in circles.
Like
that toy
I
once bounced off the obstacles before me.
Now,
unable to pick a direction,
I
only run in circles, afraid
I will
damage something
More
dear to you than me,
And
be dashed upon the floor again.
8/04
©
2017 Edward P. Morgan III
