He can never run far enough to make him feel like it’s time
to turn around, like he’s free and his return is only optional, that he's
choosing to come back by the same route or another untested and stand sweatsoaked
and gasping at the frontsteps and feel like this is home, like the child inside
is really his although he raised him as son since he was still on the tit and the little mulatto calls him daddy and looks at him like he doesn’t
comprehend the man’s staggering whiteness contrasted against his own chestnut hue
when they hold hands at the park or wait up for mommy who is working late again
then coming in like a hurricane to breastfeed the new all-white baby who’s been
screaming since she woke and the man now laces-up his sneakers and slips out
for another run, maybe this time far enough.
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