Our bikes leant against each other,
my father’s wheel empty,
my own, squeaking,
growing weeds,
four years too small
his desk breathed
damp and cigar must
flashed corners of divorce papers
I guess he was too illiterate to read them
The best dad in the world
mug sat in a ring of dirt
it had become part of the table
dead flies sunken into a blue film
that should have been finished four years ago
Follow Summer on Twitter @MissYoungWriter and Instagram @SummerrBelle
Forever Endeavour 
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