(Continuing) Improvisations


A story is a locked casket until it isn't.

Translation: Even between men, there is
the persistence of talk on long afternoons:
father and his friend with the Spanish surname
that meant snow or white or without blemish;
smoky cigar smells and damp curtains.
What could be so important that it took hours
to pour out of their mouths?  Sometimes
they forgot about me. I sank into the dark
brown leather chair in the corner 
and pulled books from the shelves. 

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