Cape-Cod Street

Six-foot-four, wispy comb over, gentle gray eyes.

Laughing barefoot, sprinting down

the Cape-Cod street.

Burning blacktop scorching toes,

super soaker streaking bare backs.

Siblings shrieking

battle cries of defeat.

Shrinking frame, shaven head, dejected daze

He knows what the future foresees.

The cancer slowly carving away his pancreas.

A fungus deeply decaying his soul,

He desperately tries

to hold onto the few weeks

the doctor prescribed.

My mother sat us down,

late one Saturday night.

Her voice a shaking flame in the wind

explaining death to unsuspecting children.

A universe expecting them to find

how found family,

can be forced away.