Thirty-three hundred patty-cakes
bounce my sleep.
The murmurs of an absent child
creak the staircase until dawn.
The iron nails securing my spine
flake a glittering rust.
It is hard to repair the pump
that primes my eyes for tears,
while the ghost in my attic
constricts my throat with her laughter.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
