cherished
filled with troves of treasure--or trash
blankets covered with ancient dog hair
still stout enough to stave off
winter’s bitter bone,
crushed cans for cash
the sullied stuffed animal that belonged
to him, your only babe, stolen from you
by a 1999 Ford F-150, black
and driven by the devil himself
or his proxy, though it mattered not,
not when you could not close your eyes
without seeing him, still whole, still…
not when you heard the door slam
eons ago, or a Tuesday yet in crisp view
your husband leaving, the singular smack
of hardwood against the frame
his stone solid goodbye to you, and the pious pang he felt
each time he saw your son’s brown eyes
in yours, eyes now on the cart, the road
that has become your aching ascetic ascent
where the sound of the eternal wheels
lulls you to walking sleep,
where you can travel back
in tortured time
to nothing
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
cherished
filled with troves of treasure--or trash
blankets covered with ancient dog hair
still stout enough to stave off
winter’s bitter bone,
crushed cans for cash
the sullied stuffed animal that belonged
to him, your only babe, stolen from you
by a 1999 Ford F-150, black
and driven by the devil himself
or his proxy, though it mattered not,
not when you could not close your eyes
without seeing him, still whole, still…
not when you heard the door slam
eons ago, or a Tuesday yet in crisp view
your husband leaving, the singular smack
of hardwood against the frame
his stone solid goodbye to you, and the pious pang he felt
each time he saw your son’s brown eyes
in yours, eyes now on the cart, the road
that has become your aching ascetic ascent
where the sound of the eternal wheels
lulls you to walking sleep,
where you can travel back
in tortured time
to nothing
Every holy homeless person you see has a story...
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