• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 12
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Just Cut Metal

I squint through the cloudy mirage of tomorrow,
an indistinct watercolor painting
of turquoise shadows and
gentle mauve hues of memory’s projection.

I remember turning the key,
the creaking wooden steps to my college apartment,
folding faded jeans and gold threaded scarves,
placing them in someone else’s furniture.
Freedom infused my perpetual tuna casserole,
my monthly bus pass,
my afternoons browsing the basement
used bookstore for dog-eared novels.

My son’s tomorrow is a dangling key
of all things possible,
the clean sheen of just cut metal.
I put the rusted one in my pocket,
filling the air with story and youth song,
tales of skating along the canal at twilight,
seeing the outline of Parliament’s pointed spires,
listening to ballads at the Celtic pub,
walking until the soles of our feet throbbed.


Just Cut Metal

My hands now covered in memory paint,
I listen to my own echo,
stand in the center of the last reverberation of sound.
I look up, allow the hanging wire to be empty,
celebrate the shape of my son’s eager fingers.
He will hold his own brush,
find a new shiny thing,
open his own doors.