I left her the house
and got a place on Torley. Each night
the neighbors put chairs on the sidewalk,
turn the TV face out, drink Iron City
and watch the kids play in the street.
I get home from work at 6 or 10
or 2, shower and then sleep
with eyes open:
a child shrieking on a hospital gurney,
her spine filleted and straightened,
the smell of burning in my hair,
a new mother life-flighted from the mall,
brain shifting in her head,
crushed by bleeding while we watch.
We drink coffee and wait
while a father facing doom in our hands
says good bye to his children;
each day I pedal in over the Bloomfield Bridge,
or drive when called at night, never knowing
that it will get worse.
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