I see him. Still,
in the newspaper—
Mother of Two Missing in Montlake Terrace.
Greasy curls, crazy sunken eyes.
On the sidewalk,
head hung low, plodding gait.
On my sidewalk, outside the fruit stand.
When I look up
he’s not there.
Unoriginal? Maybe,
but tonight will be familiar: chicken
potatoes and veggies.
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