by Eliza Bartlett Anise

When I check on my father
he cannot tell if anyone
is in the room
so I shut the lights
and he doesn't stir.
His lips rattle lightly,
not asleep, not really awake.

As I turn to leave the room
I spot on his dresser
an old horse-show ribbon,
it's only fifth place
from some obscure show
I showed in years ago --

Looking at it there
I wonder how
I will get through April, May, July,
because I feel as small
as the gesture
his hands made, as he carefully
placed the ribbon there.

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