by riley knox
Life-breaths leak through tarred and cracked teeth
as you tell us the same lie.
A weak eye wanders left, caught by something gleaming,
and my reaction is calculated.
Your stare is feeble now.
But when I was small your arms were firmaments holding
the sky and your voice commanded the hairs on
the back of my neck.
She pushes you in a wheelchair from white room,
to white room,
monitors beep when you beat and pulse
to pump you full of oxygen.
You used to drink dirty martinis with red women
who’d follow you for a cigarette with
quick stilettoed footsteps.
The glass in your eye creeps daily,
and we all have days circled and money pooled.