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Concessions


Despite two watches on his wrist
he opens the garage at all hours,
unable to tell if it’s night or day.

It’s as if the moon fell
and bounced once
off the pavement
before shattering into
quarters and crescents,
its shrapnel severing
tendons of thought.

Before the accident
he doesn’t remember
having with the car,
he refused to concede
even the finest point.

Now he runs
from the smallest
conflict,
doesn’t know
he’s opening
the door
in his underwear.

He is thinner, paler;
soon he will be
translucent,
bits of moon
shining through him
at all hours.


Addy Robinson McCulloch is a freelance writer and editor. A member of the North Carolina Writer’s Network, she lives in Wilmington, NC, with her husband, two dogs, one cat, and three boats of various sizes and in various stages of working order. When not editing college textbooks, Addy enjoys doing just about anything else.


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