there is a caul of dust on the stairs
where, past his bedtime, he used to
watch freedom through banister rungs
the feet on handmedown pajamas
too large; sleeves
too short.
 he still wonders
what they meant
“you’ll grow into it.”

If you can’t tell already, this is speed poetry week. I’m spending ten minutes or less on these, although I will go back and workshop ‘em as time permits. This one in particular I think I’d like to flesh out.

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