His Parents

A truck is heard outside, the window
talks of mourning glass
as it shades itself from Mr. Sun

and the carpet is still young and healthy
there are no cows
outside in the grass stalks a skunk

looking for trash or to make a stink
between
himself upstairs and his parents

who can’t appreciate anything, who
can’t
appreciate in reality because there are too many

houses in the way of their psyches,
a small stroke
in his mother, and

whiskey on his undead father
haunting us
when we don’t attend the multi-colored glass stained

with history
without blood
or what she

brings to the table, but
in the finger tips
of everything that gets a lawn mown, for

she is our true nature

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