Hitler and the Sitter (starting a new path of writing about my childhood – I get published and was scared of family, but I’m tired of running so damn scared)

I dwelt in the city of broken cogs
and bent train whiistles
which sound like a dying man
whistling a last tune.

My dad had long legs
from here to heaven
padding on size 13 feet
in thin, polyester socks
with yellow stitching
dime store purchases

He wore the last made in the USA
clothing and his dead Uncle Jack’s
coat with the polka dots
Uncle Jack sold used cars
and dressed the part

He is an ambulating scarecrow
the coat swallowing him
Those menacing red circles
of varying sizes on gray fabric
a unicolored game of Twister

He grows a mustache
and crops it to resemble Hitler’s
He parts his hair in the same manner
He hates Jews, but not black people

An elongated Hitler wears Uncle Jack’s
voluminous coat, spots blood red
It is too sad to be rebellion

My mother sits and drinks, sits and drinks
That old, cheap sofa devouring her
inch by atrophying inch
in the white room
with the yellow grease on the ceiling

The room where the windows are covered
by papertowels, she glued up one day
to block the judges who judge
the spies who spy
and God’s own natural light

Lucy Simpson

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