Flick flakes fleck from fraught flutes;
I won't repeat.
I can't say why.
I is the word that demands
a more fair hearing than the 
table attached to a chair 
with a wire frame place
to put the extra books.
I covered them in paper
by rule
per half year
and snuck from
day to day
and haze to gaze
without so much
asked or answered.
Memorial reconsideration;
we made out in a car
"I woke up in a car"
fog in the car
a flashlight from
another car.
What obsession,
what addiction,
might subtract from
whichever purposes 
were meant to be entrained?
I ask again now, 
wary again
of repetition,
scores of years
not yet passed
as I press my heel
into the top of the other ankle
and wish that dad was back.

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