Friday, November 24, 2006
Walking as if the wind blows leeward
he looks into my eyes ‘til the tic comes
blinks into it, a tremor marks his hand.
Tells of long-haul trucking, again,
once the doc approved.
Florida grew too large he says
overfull of Cubans, Haitians and Yankees
Kansas drew him with a lowcost home
before tornadoes turned him out.
He brings up Viet Nam
when it seems that I won’t ask,
makes it sound an afterthought
but I hear his yearn to tell,
thirteen days was all he stayed
less than a short vacation.
Testosterone still high,
he thought it a macho game,
missed a move,
didn’t see the bullet that sniped his neck.
Hair, the rich thick color of honey,
a messy cover on his head,
he strolls with limp and leftside lean
admiring art on my gallery walls
says his rig is parked across the street
says his world needs a pause.
Mist, altered fractal
Posted by Tumblewords: at 11:24 AM