My heart tires,
fury leeching from my bones
into words with poisonous tips,
stabbing pixels, housemates;
JoePa's peeps rally 'round
"He's like my grandpa! Let him be!"
As now grown men twitch
in the night,
memory wisps of tiny hands pressed flat to tile
or face to mattress
as pain flares through body parts;
they cannot even see.
And hope spills from them,
knowing the world prefers a football hero
forever cast in bronze
to the safety of the wee ones.
and only the forgotten know why.
©Pamela V Jones 2011
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