Poetry

My Father’s Workshop by Summer Young

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

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