Grace

A son runs from his father

as smoke blows into the air,

and lipstick on my collar,

reminds me that I don’t care.

A cigarette falls,

my mother calls,

but I can’t hear at all.

A figure like an hour glass

is waiting on time to pass.

Sitting in the train station,

she’s running out of patience

waiting for her great migration.

I run straight to the trains,

hoping it’s not too late

to catch my baby, Grace,

before she leaves the state.

I saw her sitting there:

Dark hair, red lips,

and a wide-eyed stare.

I dropped hard my suit case,

rushed to meet her embrace,

and with tears all down her cheeks,

she said she hadn’t slept in weeks;

Then, I confessed: I’d been a mess

and hadn’t got much rest myself.

I said, “Like it or not I’m boarding this train,

leaving behind my good family name,

and never coming back again.

A thin smile curved her lips,

I put my arms around her hips,

and held her tight.

And to this day: if that was wrong,

then dare I say, loving her never felt so right.

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