August

Midwestern moist heat
Heavy, unrelenting
Lacking moderation
Dry, brittle grass
Yellow in its death
He, ashen in his
Calling me by name
One last time
Asking
Would he be ok
Scared, spooked
My yes answer
Belied the truth
A forty year habit
Had squeezed out
All beating and
Capability for life
Massive
The door, wooden,
75 years on hinges
Sturdy, stubborn
Oppressive humidity
Halting the key’s
Turn in the lock
Jammed, unwilling
Like his heart
Sobbing
Attempting entry
Standing in that
Startling brightness
August sun
Challenging surrender
A quarter century gone
Still I remember
That brass handle and
Finally
My letting go

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