Driving By A Place I Used To Live 1
It looks so small, but held a happy seven,
at least I thought we were, I don't remember
sadness, no tragedy or pain, not even
illness. I certainly don't recall the sliver
within my throbbing foot— just the silver
dollar-size puddle of blood on looking
at the sole that made me scream and shiver
surely— I just don't remember. Looking
back, we had good parents— we weren't poor,
and far from rich, but we were never cold
or hungry. That house— it was a simple door
to heaven, with quiet parents who never grew old—
a father who worked nights so we could eat,
a mother who squeezed slivers from our feet.
Marc Darnell is a custodian and online tutor in Omaha NE, and has also been a phlebotomist, hotel supervisor, busboy, editorial assistant, farmhand, devout recluse, and incurable brooder. He received his MFA from the University of Iowa, and has published poems in The Lyric, Rue Scribe, Verse, Skidrow Penthouse, Shot Glass Journal, The HyperTexts, Candelabrum, The Road Not Taken, Aries, Ship of Fools, Open Minds Quarterly, The Fib Review, Verse- Virtual, Blue Unicorn, Ragazine, The Literary Nest, and The Pangolin Review among others.