Invisible Ink Tattoo

Grandfather’s death was undramatic.
He waited on a seat at the Dallas Airport
for his return flight to Illinois
and fell asleep for ever.

It was hours before anyone noticed
that Death stopped by
preempted grandfather’s flight
and return to the farm.

His death was my second death
in a span of a few months—
my brother was first.
He was thirteen.

There was an emptying lack
of explanation or inclusion.
I never met the security guard
who discovered grandfather’s perpetual stillness.

I could not get enough red licorice whips.
The moon seemed impossibly close
and more silent that usual.
My stuffed animals became more alive.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney

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