J.B.S. October 1989
The Sons
Bare feet on wood floors where colored papers lay and memories float through closed doors.
Boxes of overflow clutter a room
where small heads rested on
crumpled pillows,
one day wet with tears
the next, a plaything,
the next, uncovered and stored.
"Push me higher!" he cried as he swung above the treetops, into the clouds to see the stars...and dine with angels... Only to quickly return for another push.
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