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Dad Did Not Quit
Can we talk over dinner?
I’ll be composed,
Salad a middleman
On orange china.
I won’t stare daggers
I’ll only look gently
You won’t upset me
You won’t cry
Tablecloth a barrier
Of polite normalities
No last words.
No hard feeling.
You’ll drift atop
Jello molds,
An angel in suburban hell.
You won’t tell me
You quit your job,
And our haven
Will remain bubble wrapped.
Copyright ©
Gia Chesshir
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