Fire Hazard

The man who slapped me was only trying to help me and play golf
I was seven years old, reaching out to touch a block of dry ice
In my heart I knew he was doing what was best and for me
This is what I said when we threw his ashes over the side
Of the boat in Indian Key

On Sunday I didn’t think about the water
Or the boat or anything about waves
I thought about what it meant to see
A grown man whistling as a grown man watched
A golf ball sail in the air and why this is such
A perfect time to smile where all the sounds
Might go and why must it be

When you are too young to understand anything
And too young to whistle or sigh

Ricky Garni is a writer and machinist born in Florida and living in North Carolina. His most recent publications can be found in BOAAT, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Yellow Chair Review and Section 8 Magazine. His latest works are Pinky Embrace, via 101 secret wing dings, and a bonbon collection of six poems by Bitterzoet Magazine, to be released in the sultry heat of late summer, 2015.

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