AI Poem of the day #46

When I go in the door the grass is still wet with the evening warm on my skin. I have done nothing to get up and leave except to draw this picture -- the man standing in the morning light -- of my hands at my side in the air. I have stood on this line the same amount of time my mother has stood in the door trying not to make eye contact with the man in the photo framed with her Journal. Now I can imagine the world. As a boy I wanted to be the one no one would walk past.