I sat across from him,
shooting his portrait with my phone.
His charcoal sweatshirt faded
into the dark booth.
He played tic-tac-toe
in the dim light.
I should have known
something was wrong,
when he scribbled his X’s and O’s
like a toddler—
should have known
his brain’s weak vessels
were bleeding again.
Should have put down the phone
and looked him in the eye.
Should have noticed
his half-eaten ice cream
melting in the bowl.
Previously published at Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Fall 2017.
Header photograph © Charlotte Hamrick.
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