She tucks a dead cigarette
between her lips. He looks
the other way, asks, will you
marry me?
She takes out her lighter,
pats his greying head, says,
eat your pizza, boy.
At the far corner of a barber shop,
the crumbs of his beard tossed
across his parted lips, he asks,
will you marry me?
The razor stumbles against
a bare patch of skin. He grips
his knee, the parting slowly closes.
Then the smell of cookies baking, he grins
as if he heard a yes,
hands him three dollars before asking,
where is your manager?
A knowing glance, a tired tug
from his daughter, Dad, stop.
His animals know him,
the tilt of his sorrow, the loose laces
of his search, the green-brown eyes.
Chickens, geese, rabbits,
ducks, cats, they run to him. And, as if
to ask, he kneels against the ground,
grasps the wide neck of his billy goat,
No more, he whispers, no more.
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