I did not go out to see it
the winds were too cruel
as April’s cocky currents often are
though the sky was a clean black palette
on which it painted perfect its orange face
inside, in the incandescent haze
you were restless, reaching up from the bed
at ghosts I could not see
you were seven and eighty,
and there were many
who haunted your nights,
especially now, when the doctor had said
nothing was left to be done,
but the watching and waiting
he had given you little
of Morpheus’ sweet sap, as per your request
and I left the light on, as you demanded
what about the dark did you not like
save what we all fear, as the end grows near?
for whom were you grasping?
I suspect I knew, from the old days,
when I would sit on your knee,
the other big people there with you
swapping stories in the gray Lucky Strike air
you thought I was too young to understand
(and I probably was)
you thought my mystic memories
of that slur of beer buzzed words
would trail into the city night,
like your smoke
(but they did not)
sooner or later, mostly later,
you and your buddies
would get around to the ships
I would see sails and pirates
but your tongues would paint thunder and steel
(which I somehow could taste)
Eddie the **** and David the Jew,
those were the two, the ones
you let slip through your hands
the ones the salted sea took too soon
your eyes were not bleary
when you told the tale,
every sentence punctuated
by a swig of Schlitz, a drag off a ***
your buddies told their own stories
of those who slipped through their paws
or were blown “all to hell and back”
or drowned, without a simple sound
those were the spirits
for whom you reached,
anemic apoplectic apparitions
in the indifferent air, but still there
for only you to see, waiting for you
while I wondered when you would join them
and if I would yet brave the wailing wind
under the blood moon
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
I did not go out to see it
the winds were too cruel
as April’s cocky currents often are
though the sky was a clean black palette
on which it painted perfect its orange face
inside, in the incandescent haze
you were restless, reaching up from the bed
at ghosts I could not see
you were seven and eighty,
and there were many
who haunted your nights,
especially now, when the doctor had said
nothing was left to be done,
but the watching and waiting
he had given you little
of Morpheus’ sweet sap, as per your request
and I left the light on, as you demanded
what about the dark did you not like
save what we all fear, as the end grows near?
for whom were you grasping?
I suspect I knew, from the old days,
when I would sit on your knee,
the other big people there with you
swapping stories in the gray Lucky Strike air
you thought I was too young to understand
(and I probably was)
you thought my mystic memories
of that slur of beer buzzed words
would trail into the city night,
like your smoke
(but they did not)
sooner or later, mostly later,
you and your buddies
would get around to the ships
I would see sails and pirates
but your tongues would paint thunder and steel
(which I somehow could taste)
Eddie the **** and David the Jew,
those were the two, the ones
you let slip through your hands
the ones the salted sea took too soon
your eyes were not bleary
when you told the tale,
every sentence punctuated
by a swig of Schlitz, a drag off a ***
your buddies told their own stories
of those who slipped through their paws
or were blown “all to hell and back”
or drowned, without a simple sound
those were the spirits
for whom you reached,
anemic apoplectic apparitions
in the indifferent air, but still there
for only you to see, waiting for you
while I wondered when you would join them
and if I would yet brave the wailing wind
under the blood moon
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