on a bench
in Barcelona,
open-neck plaid shirt
betrays him as a visitor,
children chase their
football,
unaware that he is there.I watch from behind an olive tree,
observe a passive contentment
undesired in life,
never quite as still
or calm,
as in death
When my son died
I was devastated by
the colossal waste
that was his mind.
That rare nonjudgmental
visionary kind.
My flattened affect belied
a manic hemispheric need
to understand his death.
When...
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