Tuesday, January 7, 2014

He Walks Very Slow.

The airport blues get you when you just wait.
He turned to me.  He told me.
My heart is living forever.
I said it seemed that way.
The body is skinny and brittle.
The mind left a note on the counter.
Paper stretched over a skeleton with drugs to exacerbate bruising.
Scrawled in wrinkle the years dance.
No one under forty has experienced the chill outside.
Ice and sand where a hole was dug for a cellar.
Us caretakers,
We climb in to test our belief in a ghost.
The light hangs with beer cans and cigarette hands.
No sign is given, we drink a bottle together.
I'm listening for the best last words.
I want them to be profound so I can erase the indignity.
When you just wait a glimmer of expectation dims slow.
I think he knows that he has been here for a long time.
I think that he says he doesn't want to turn around.
Because he doesn't want to turn around.
The continent of discoloration etched upon his brow.
That does not look real.
And the hospital bed,
 and the broken reservoir lid,
 and the grinding teeth,
 and the diapers,
 and the wandering eyes,
 and the smile,
 and the brief shine,
 and the ambiguous loss.
And not knowing where he is.
It is all right because he is home.
He left and we are waiting but he is home.


  1. My dear uncle, you are brilliant. This is one of favorite things I have ever read. I'm proud to be your family.

    1. thank you so much N.P. I am so glad you enjoy it. and the pride is mutual.