The cigarette
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My father holds death in his grip. He clutches it
By excruciatingly-mundane http://excruciatingly-mun...

The cigarette

by excruciatingly-mundane

My father holds death in his grip.

He clutches it

Sturdy palms

Weak fingers

I study them.

They occasionally tremble.

This is something poetic-

No-

Sadistic.

This is self insinuated harm.

My father slowly brings his coffee mug up to his lips.

Raise the glass

I study it’s cracks

With weak fingers

And a clutching grasp.

It occasionally trembles.

My father searches the cabinet for his capsule of pills.

He pops the lid

Shakes two out

His nervous wrists

I study them.

They occasionally tremble.

But only if you look

long enough to notice.

And quite simply,

That is the way of this world.

You study it

And only then

you begin to understand.

It is saddening to find that

You begin to see

The things you wish you hadn’t.

But what is once learned

Can not be undiscovered.

Maybe that is why he trembles.

The front door slams shut.

11 o'clock.

My father is tired.

He parts his lips to speak.

I hear his voice.

It occasionally trembles.

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