Apartment watchman

When my son was two year old
I would push him up that road

In  creaking rusted toy tricycle.
Rows of apartments stacked by.

Now I am falling in late fifties.
My son is apartment watchman

Living in  womb of fallen night.
Here he irons shirts on bodies.

Years have ironed my body flat.
For wheelchair I have no money

To bribe the hospital ward boy.
I reach hospital in son’s tricycle.

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