They run out of the house,
like fireworks on the fourth of July.
“Good morning Mr. Jameson” (It sure is morning)
screeches, Jamy, that bat of girl.
She screeched the same way six years ago, her first time home
The gluttonous moving van idles in their cracked driveway,
burping its fumes across my face.
The older one, Alan, waves,
lazily, (Just like his generation)
He did that same lazy flick of his wrist 2 years ago,
when he left, in a black tuxedo, with that Barbie doll of a girl.
The mom, Linda, smiles the same way she did 13 years ago.
Why is she smiling? (A trip with a bat and a future burger flipper isn’t something to smile about)
The van rolls out of the drive way,
Each little sardine inside smiling and waving my way,
the perfect cherry on top of 13 years of torment.
As it pulls around the corner and out of sight
it is suddenly quiet
as a funeral.
© Copyright 2017 Dakotah. All rights reserved.
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