It’s Time

It was like finding
the antique journal
of all the dads in the world
the deathly pencil
of a nineteenth century farmer
his defeated smile
embedded in Oklahoma
a secret wino
there are ghosts at his chalkboard
explaining to no one
under his fingernails
work dust in dust storms
that came up, buried his schooling
his family tapes all the windows shut
to escape the banshees screaming
when the isolation just ran out
they should have just run
on the blinding winds
away from each other
that was the only education
possible
run

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