Red Limbs

---

---

I see them     coming from
behind the     layer of mesh
glass being     lead by a white
coat  to the    table of pastels
and crayons      where us fuck
up’s scribble       serenity onto
 blank  page.        They’re not
not my    friends   or family, it’s
the em    aciated      late teen’s
next to      me, the     one who’s
too lost      to look     up. It’s his
parents      I think by     the way
their     deflated walk    and hung
faces   greet him as      he shades
his    leafless tree. It’s    not till they
are    behind him, noting   his precise
hand,       that he turns         towards
their         shadows and           without
smiling        wonders      aloud why they
came.    Wounded, they remind him they
are his   parents and that they’re here now.
He        shows them the tight bracelet on his
left    arm, then the gauze wrapped on his right
wrist;      a reminder that they weren’t there then.

---