Like Father

We call him Superman.

The way we grab his unshaven prickled face.

When the sun sprawls over the treetops.

And Friday evening yawns the day away.

Me and Austin sit with legs crossed and eyes fixed.

The Xbox controllers used to be white.

A perfect mixture of prepubescent sweat and potato chip oil.

NCAA football 07 was our favorite video game.

And one of the few things that made us appear like brothers.

Austin called them the cuties.

The Mississippi State bulldog has a catcher mitt for a face

With two bottom fangs.

My favorite mascot was the central Florida Golden Knight.

He didn't have a face.

Just a blank space where a face would be.

It fit me like masculine ideals and emotional denial.

The receding silence evaporates from our vapid.

Two boxes of dominos pizza sit underneath us.

Like a Western European country.

Our dirty boy hands, like a dictator.

Taking everything we want with no exception.

And for a moment, time kicks his feet up.

Wafting rhymes of heartbeats and bated breaths.

The language of the unspoken tongue.

With each step kissing the puddled driveway.

Squish, Squish, Squish.

We never believed in ghosts.

There was no time for doubting or evidence.

You could feel it.

He was here.

The door knocks with a hopeful tenor.

We run but we don't do freedom doing.

It follows our staggered steps.

With more breath and more heart.

The freedom is us three on his knee,

before we know how to be happy


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