ode to my ailing father

walden freeman

. . . and what started as a mirror became a whole room: teal, beige, antique cars, and of course green. your favorite colors row each boat with iron oars. solid like your voice used to be before the rust set in from too many silent films. let's attach our arms at the skin, drive our cars like bees would -- stingers ready to attack the brakes at any sign off too much movement. we'll find a long-lost chapter of this crumbling church performing car surgery in a closed garage. and what starts as a mirage will become a whole room full of mirrors begging the question: mercy?

love you through tears and tropical storms.

my piece of clay

I really liked that...

walden freeman

I didn't. I'm trying to get ready to lose.