By Jeff Parent
How many dark coats have seen inside
this room from back of this bone-hard chair
but this isn’t the time Dad
to talk economics or worry about
the neighbourhood strays that you fed
‘til the ambulance came for the seizures
that cracked three four ribs and made blood
of your tongue and I just figured out
what palliative means and so who do we
call when they tell us it’s time
and where do I look while you lie there
and moan and then start to turn yellow
and what do I say do we say
did we say was it ever enough?
Jeff Parent is a stay-home dad, comic book enthusiast, and some kinda poet. In 2017, Jeff’s poem “Inside After” placed third for the Words(on)Pages Blodwyn Memorial Prize, and in 2016, his poem “Made By Robots” garnered an honourable mention in The Fiddlehead’s Tell It Slant poetry contest. His poetry has also been published by Lemon Hound, Bad Nudes, The Quilliad, Taproot, and Beech Street Review, amongst others. Jeff currently lives in Sherbrooke, Québec with his wife, their young son, and two freakin’ cats.