You can see him now.
Or anytime for a while.
I may not care about
anyone including myself.
But, I remember him earning
two bits an hour
and before christmas
some more.
Sweeping the shop
once the barber
was paid and the
customer trudged
through the
falling snow.
I can see him now
you said.
I wonder if the thin
pull over, once white,
its weave, full, but wrung
on the
porch wash tub between
wood rollers until loose
at the collar and grey
in its color.
I can see his face
without knowing how
it feels in the locked
glass case at the
postal office, staring
out, no reward offered.
I can see you too.
It is beyond even a
single tear, so many
already dried like his
shirt that hung, until
he woke, a white flag,
Oh I mean gray
giving up in one
way but, in another,
running from
the misdemeanors or
whatever they rate them.
On some numbered
road until he is
ripped away like the
piece of clothing
dry on the line.
And on the straw
bed, until released
from laboring,
supervised only in
his body but not
his mind.