Poetry

How Dangerous – Poem

At the right of the bumper
a man screamed up hellfire
in a warning
at my blind creep
into the crosswalk of
fiction.  A mad heap of
adrenaline rushed through me
and it was my father
in the dark room of cancer
crying out in pain.
How can I help?
What can I do?
It was a disaster I drew
into my life because
I must have had something to learn
that I didn’t get yet.  Fuckin-A.
I didn’t see the man
on the street.
I didn’t hit him either.
But I could have.
How dangerous
I am.  No one died
for my sins today.
But that doesn’t mean
I need to.  How dangerous
I am to myself.  The light hold
of forgiveness, a
reluctant yes against
the pattern of pain
is here.  Under my bed,
on the top of my closet
white flags are packed
in ziplock baggies
embroidered with his name.

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