alfie lee writing



He sold vacuum cleaners, sold us ours,
top of the line at a steep discount.
When my mother offered to pay,
he brushed her off with a wave,

"C'mon, sis!" claiming it was overstock.
I think of him younger, behind his drums,
long hair, bell-bottoms, big specs, hard rock.
Now and then he'd disappear, come back

months, a year, with his hair shone off.
But he pulled himself together that last time,
got straight, met a girl, got married,
bought a nice place, scanned the ads, was doing good.

How he busted the lock and window
latch to brace the 14th storey high
no one could explain. They said he
didn't have a scratch on him. Miraculous

was what it was. He was my mother's
favourite. We sat five nights folding gold,
made small talk, nodding off. The last morning
we gathered anxious round the unsteady moth.


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