sad tieAnd all is well

The damp basement air hangs heavy
with browns and blacks and wax
and swishes of the repetition
of horsehair on leather,
on a Sunday morning,
the one time of the week
my father
can polish his shoes,
can escape from us.

Colors blare from the TV in the corner
as I apply myself as I will
to diecast cars flying down
homemade cardboard ramps.

My mother in the kitchen above,
dyeing and pressing dough into
spades and diamonds and hearts and clovers,
a rich hand dealt
but I unable to see
how lucky it is.


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