Grey
your brother's outside
in a t-shirt in the winter's chill
you're too afraid to ask why
he’s smoking 'til the air could kill
and in your father’s field
the patch absent of grass doesn’t whistle
like you used to
or like the sound of a bullet
from a Steyr TMP
like a hole that doesn’t bleed
Copyright © Ashlea Senft | Year Posted 2017
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