Sweater
I think of that too
especially on Mother’s Day
Mom stuffing us inside
the station wagon and
peeling gravel pinging
off metal as if she’d become
some kind of stunt driver
Dad still standing at the
window in his urine-stained
white underwear waving
like a phantom or wax figure
the husk of us wondering
what now what again
what are we are we even
what people call a family
and can you have one
if you live in a trailer
until the next day when
Mom drove home and
parked the coffin-car sideways
and Dad met us before any
door was opened wearing a sweater
though he’d owned one
and never would again.
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