alfie lee writing

wild deer

driving home at dusk
from a balmy afternoon at Cold Springs
on the Taconic State Parkway
which i hate - it always seems

to me too frenzied and
too late - with Cheng Wei, Lixia,
Suwen strapped
in the car seat crying,

a ballistic warhead, about to detonate, she hates
restraints, we spot
wild deer grazing
on the embankments passing one

after another nuzzling grass,
glass eyes flashing by
to the rush of cars speeding on

to Saturday night
Manhattan. Ginnie says
slow down lest they
bound across, how her former

boss met a buck head on
with his Toyota. i grip
the wheel a little
tighter, no joke, the damage

that would be done, shift in my seat to stay
alert and
am pitched back barely hanging on
to my grandfather's waist

who was to die of cancer later
bewildered, without weight, hooked up
to his hospital bed, a blood spitting
Samuel Beckett

on his motorbike
as the light turns green,
his jacket

balloon blows up desperate,
he turns to me and says, hold
on tight, boy, stay awake,  i try
but still i lose it

in the heat,
in the promise of home and sleep,
as time, as distance breaks
a part eventually separates.


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