Four-Thirty

On my way home the day he died

I stopped at the store.

Or the gas station, or the bank, 

I don’t remember now.

The street corner, I remember, 

but I forget the business.

I closed my car door, and 

glanced at my watch –

4:30 p.m.

I wouldn’t make it home in time. 

Mom met me on the road, 

at the bend by the blackberry bushes.

Her face was flat and wet, 

and I knew.

4:30

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