Ken Robidoux

Photograph

                      for Hannah

In this one you sit crossed-legged,
facing me, holding a pair of drum sticks.
The honey glaze on the wood
draws light from a bay window.

We sit, just the two of us, each playing
some song now forgotten in our walk-up overlooking the bay.
You are still in diapers and your full round cheeks,
tummy, sweet baby fat, squinting eyes,
they mimic mine, honor me playfully—
we both smile.

How will I ever explain why I left? How will I, years from now,
plead my case? I glued the photograph, collage style,
onto a gathering of others—poster sized—hung it
in the living room from its own silver cord.

“Home”

“Shaking Cursive”

“Simple Desert Skies”

“So It’s Wednesday and Celeste is Dead”

“Turn Smile Shift Repeat”

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