Sport 38: Winter 2010
Regret is stacked against my wall like a winter's wood. Each night I burn a memory.
I lost my sons' years in a forest.
The sound of the grandfather clock leaks through holes in my slippers. It breaks each moment in two.
The lesser half ticks.
In the interval before each tock I listen for the echo of the axe, the sound of wood chips in the air.