she’s in the shower
head down dripping with tears
half bottle of rum on the side table
caps off the prescription meds
grabs a towel wipes the mirror
downs a shot cigarette dangling
smoke and steam twist in a silky
samba behind a drawn face
in another room dad waits
as beaten down as a marathoner
near the checkered flag
and out she comes
dark glasses wet hair pulled
back rollaboard rumbling
over the hardwood out the
door into his waiting car
she calls him from her new room
hates the place doubts the treatment
her roommate looks scary
wants so many things she can’t have
dad hangs up with a massive sigh
takes a sip of coffee finally it’s done
turns the first page of the
New York Times without reading
because he knows it’s a marathon
with a finish line that keeps moving
each jogger pulling away from the bad
running for something better
he knows because
his other daughter is still
running in circles
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