My father is standing near the swings at Fort George Park.
For some reason he is angry.
His fleece pullover characterizes the day -
grey.
Grey Saturdays:
When the clearest blue sky can’t banish the feeling that
even if you slept all day you’d still wake up tired
and the hottest shower in the world
couldn’t rid you of your clammy underarms.
Your eyelids droop mid afternoon and the grey seeps in –
transcending the spectrum – settling in your bones.
Strange how a piece of clothing,
remembered,
can mean so much.
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