Tuesday,
Sorry. It's been a while since I last posted a poem here. I have been writing. I just forgot about posting here. Manly because I've been working on the blog a lot. So, here's a new poem.
The brown paper bag in his left hand, the backpack slung over
the other shoulder, the sharp fast intake of breath; the crawl up
the carpeted stairs a bit too much for his age. But still he stands there,
and stands there, quietly stands there patiently stands there waiting
for you to say “Come on in, sit it down, take a load off.” And he does.
Plops with an earthquake certainty down in the only comfortable chair
in the room, gingerly folds his leathery, long legs under his ass, guru like,
takes a long, healthy swig from his wrinkled bag… “Ahhh! You want a hit?”
You shouldn’t, you really know you shouldn’t, fourteen years sober
and you shouldn’t… but you do, and you do... and you do once more,
and once again… and suddenly the walls begin to crumble, a skinny,
tight crack at first from floor to ceiling, then thickening, pulsating,
a river appears… an ocean crashing in on you… but you float like you
always do… along with the couch with the broken frame, the dusty
fifty-six inch TV… you float along within the rush of waves, the
sounds of waves slapping lightly against the inside of your head.
You float and wonder, hoping and pray the floating will never stop.
—rrw o8-o4-13
Sorry. It's been a while since I last posted a poem here. I have been writing. I just forgot about posting here. Manly because I've been working on the blog a lot. So, here's a new poem.
When the Darkness Comes
You know how it is, don't you, when
the darkness arrives
stands just outside the door
waiting for you to notice that it’s there.The brown paper bag in his left hand, the backpack slung over
the other shoulder, the sharp fast intake of breath; the crawl up
the carpeted stairs a bit too much for his age. But still he stands there,
and stands there, quietly stands there patiently stands there waiting
for you to say “Come on in, sit it down, take a load off.” And he does.
Plops with an earthquake certainty down in the only comfortable chair
in the room, gingerly folds his leathery, long legs under his ass, guru like,
takes a long, healthy swig from his wrinkled bag… “Ahhh! You want a hit?”
You shouldn’t, you really know you shouldn’t, fourteen years sober
and you shouldn’t… but you do, and you do... and you do once more,
and once again… and suddenly the walls begin to crumble, a skinny,
tight crack at first from floor to ceiling, then thickening, pulsating,
a river appears… an ocean crashing in on you… but you float like you
always do… along with the couch with the broken frame, the dusty
fifty-six inch TV… you float along within the rush of waves, the
sounds of waves slapping lightly against the inside of your head.
You float and wonder, hoping and pray the floating will never stop.
—rrw o8-o4-13
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