"Damaged Goods"
My eleventh birthday,
from San
Luis Obispo he brought it me.
It stuck
above my sink, those
two mirror-words in
pink and orange script.
My mother would
squint her nose, "I don't
like it," and brush
out, shaking her head.
"We're none of us perfect" was
the surf-shop story he told, I
remember:
weekend travels and his eyes
that sadness haunts heavy these years.
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