DISPOSSESSED
Running,
Running…
We are always running,
running again.
I clutch my son’s small hand,
his fingernails drive into my palm.
Running, Running again,
and the cold is catching up to us.
Every step is slippery, against the
permafrost, and muddy sludge.
Running, limping, run…
What to tell my son.
Do I make this a game?
A lie, like Santa Claus...
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