(Continuing) Improvisations

5

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. 

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.