Short Sketch in the Snow

even the way he drives
is gentle. there
is a light
dusting of snow:

so light, in fact, that you
can almost count
the flakes
if you concentrate

hard enough. can i drop
you off at the
door?
he asks. my mom

says, no. so we walk in
together. i don’t
know
where i’m going

with this, exactly. just a
brief linguistic
portrait
of my dad. and this

hoping that maybe some-
day i’ll turn out
the same.
one time, someone

told me the way i walk is
gentle. who knows?
maybe
i’m on my way.

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