losing our grip on purpose

By John Randall

After a long toxic history
next-day air
ring of a phone
I don’t want to look back
at this time later thinking
I let myself get mad
at my parents for
letting themselves
get so damned old
the price of a smile
the latest generation
mortared crown
stops on the wheelchair
crackers & cheese for every meal
corners of the house dusty
where the broom couldn’t
sweep an illness among us
kept ill like an alien alias or
the name I used when
I climbed the wall
which went what way and then

John Randall has worked as a trash collector, a copy editor, an attorney, and a stockbroker. His interests include firewood, the night sky, and the freedom of speech. His poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, DMQ Review, and Paperbark. He received a Pushcart nomination in 2023. His work can be found online at johnbrandall.com.