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January 2018, vol 13 no 4

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Bob Lucky

Most Bones Never Become Fossils

My mother finds my father sitting in the driveway. She can't get him up. She calls my brother, who can't get him up. He calls his wife, who calls emergency services. Pick a wife from another village is what I always say. Anyway, after surgery, my father is looped on drugs and singing dem bones, dem bones. As my sister tells me this over the phone, I can feel her eyes rolling. Later, after the funeral, I remember all those fish my father and I never caught.

blue skies
the empty bird feeder
twists in the wind