“Pause your music,” I say.
“Look.”
He obeys, comprehending
not my words
but a quality of tone.
In the box the President
pauses, too; the First Lady,
the crowd crushed together,
the bells.
Later the day goes on as days do:
the child and his music
and me in the kitchen scrubbing
pans trying not to think
about the iron scent common
to steel and blood.
1 comment:
That's lovely. Thank you for sharing that today.
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