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  • Twisted tubes pump fluids to and from my father.
    Viridian green, ochre, burnt sienna, crimson red
    A watercolor palette of bodily needs and discards.
    Hushed voices puddle in whispers
    Skin looks good, they say.
    Breathing, regular, they say.
    Sable brush washes pale yellow on this waxen face,
    curled toes.
    Cerulean blue dabs his nails.

    This abstract painting is not my father.
    He ties his fly,
    casts his line,
    tilts his head to the sky.
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