by Mike Jewett

I take a picture
of a woman taking a picture
                        of a man sitting in a wheelchair
                        at an Italian restaurant.

She takes the picture not
because he’s in a wheelchair
                        but because he looks like her
                        father looks- or looked, before

the shaky signatures of Parkinson’s
began. A ring pierces the accordion
                        music playing on the loudspeakers.
                        The ring is of a pleasant ringtone
but it’s ugly, somehow.

A seven minute phone call tells
                        her that it’s all over.
                        A patron drops a forkful of
cannoli onto the marble floor,

and the woman walks out. So do I.
                        I get home and put the image onto
                        my desktop. I open the file, full
screen, close it, and drag it to the trash.

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