Cold Hearth
I came home early to find a fire burning.
But it was not for me.
Triangle
Faded blue jeans
In the wind.
Holes
Where knees used to be.
White t-shirts
And red flannel.
All-American
Clothesline.
Mom folds
and stores them
Away. Hoping
I grow into them.
Glory rests,
gently folded
triangle
on the mantle.
Bionote
Eric Luthi writes plays, short stories and narrative fiction and, on occasion, poetry. He published his first novel, Black Works last October and is working on his second novel.
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