Desired Comfort

Beneath the blue carpet there’s a stain.

I looked at it once

back when nobody was looking

and the years

had turned the red to brown.

Not far from this spot

all the frames in the room

hold different pictures of the same boy,

some young,

some very young.

His mother makes me tea when I visit

and his father shows me drawings

that he’s never allowed to collect dust.

I never know what to say

when I hear the crack in their voices,

so all I do is look at the pictures,

look at the drawings

and touch his parents

with the palm of my hand.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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