soft November light a gauzy shroud
in the afternoon sun’s logy amber gaze
fallen leaves flare up like hazy fire
and die in long listless shadows
in gutters cold water only trickles
clogged by clots of rust-colored leaves
the outer door clatters erratic in chill wind
inside dad
winces and lifts his shirt to show
an angry red scar down the middle of his ribs
brittle nicotine-tinged fingers shake
when his hands cradle his head
yellowed eyes float in brimming red sockets
he says “The dry heat.” hand motions “Wood stove.”
he shouldn’t lift the fuel but rises
and insists he will tend the fire
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