Wanderers

Looking for a place to settle
my Father walked me
___between the tracks
leading to the next town, our town
with a different name, familiar enough.

Trains push air under dust,
it is so dry, our breathing,
like eating dirt
from the earth.
It’s a drought, he says,
not looking at me.

Our destination
___is not visible
curves hide
______what we’re looking for
we see buildings
____________above treetops

Later,
Father pours Tennessee whiskey
___from his flask
onto my bee sting, Russian vodka
___into my shot glass;
we bond that way
______desecrating our bodies.

My Father talked
into the night,
___our loose rhetoric.
His stories’ morals
___I can’t live with
his heroes
________suffering
______less than he has.

I mumble his words to my wife,
___not verbatim,
_____and in English;
I don’t remember exactly what he said.
My artificial intelligence,
___resident of a child’s closet,
remains untouched, unblemished.

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