My Father’s House

A Poem by M. Lapin

My father lives in a poverty of mission
losing his gasp on possibility when he confronts escalators, elevators,
ladders of any size.
My father does not do stairs,
everything ramped for him, curbs inappropriate, porches inaccessible.
My father lives in the garage behind the family brownstone.
He is not afraid of exits or entrance ways.

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