Poetry Journal April 1, 2024

 

 

When he mentioned the name of the town his kid was moving to, my heart skipped, this synchronistic connection dating back more than a decade to the day our uncle died as if God or fate needed to dangle these hints at us, raising “red flags” that suggest we should slam on the brakers before the car we’re driving plunges off the cliff – again.

He wanted to know what it was like there, if it has become a new hip place for the up and coming generation as its neighboring town once was for mine.

I couldn’t tell him. All I could think of was her hurried trek to the same place as if history needed to repeat itself, playing out some perpetual play.



email to Al Sullivan

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