they unplug him around noon
you watch his labored breathing till it stops
thinking about the chances
you had to say or do something

an hour later Dealer asks, What’s new?
the answer in mind, Just watched dad die
what you really say, Not much
you walk out with an 8th in your pocket

again going home you
want to scream it to the 
cop who pulls you
over for speeding.

you only nod, offer
some paltry excuse
wondering if he smells the weed
not caring when he lets you go

at night in your safe zone:
rocking chair and locked door.
you realize you’ve managed to avoid
any revelations, an ability that sets a precedent:

you’ll let silence deafen
before it implodes



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