the jagged edges which gashed
his bare feet on the trash trove of shore by his trailer
slashed the folds of his memory as well

he chooses to tell no tales of that
hungry, motherless time--sharp years when he prayed
his dad would be passed out when he got home

and he usually was, there
on the cat **** sofa, splayed out like some beached whale
while he scavenged for food, and old pop bottles

a lifetime now from those foul filled days
he is a continent away, yet living on the shore,
with a fat portfolio and thin wife

who both protect him from "intrusive thoughts,"
though still he hunts for treasures on the sands, not
the nickel returns that bought his daily bread

instead, he seeks more ancient relics, glass
made smooth by the round chisel of time--soft, cool, full of color,
with no recollection of the fire that forged it

you were born in Denver
during a white out blizzard

like all round babes,
you had no clue, what was in store for you
you couldn't have known...

you would be
the last nickel to ***** through
a five-cent coin phone box,
in El Paso, Texas

or that you would sleep
for a year in a piggy bank,
of a boy named Felipe, who would die
of white blood cancer, before
he could spend you

and who would have thought
you would be in the linty pocket
of a serial murderer named Ray, when
he was captured in Santa Fe, a sunny day
on the ancient square, stalking
his next victim

a jailer used you that very night
with a twin of yours he found in
another picked pocket, of a drunk drifter,
to buy a Hershey's bar, from a machine
that would have taken a dime as well

your face began to show the fingered
signs of age by the time the choppers found sky  
above the Saigon Embassy, where you had spent
an aching April night in the Ambassador's pants

when you turned a half century, you were tossed
into a gallon jug, e pluribus unum, no more special
than others a third your vintage

I finally met you today, only because chance landed you on
the top of the heap, waiting to be saved from further folly

between reality and imagination
between literal and figurative, the thin line,
is not there when I tuck my grandson in,  

all six wise years of him, and assure him
I’ll keep watch  to make sure  no dinosaurs come
and ****** him away in the night

but instead of feigned fright, he proclaims,
there are no more dinosaurs, for a meteor came,
and “****,” says he, they were all gone  

I don’t bother to tell him, some were incinerated  
in the blink of an eye, while millions of their cousins suffered
a slow, gray, choking fate in a forever winter  

still, he is content that I was there
to bid him goodnight, to turn out the light, and wage war
with whatever creatures remained to roam,

or stalk the streets outside  
his room, or any other gathering gloom  
in the spirit or in the flesh

on the rail, not far
from where a young woman jumped
to a lonely death in the cold bay
I found you, in the fog

someone's wedding ring
perhaps once cherished, intended to seal
an eternal bond, but now this band lay
alone, silent, still, on dumber steel

who left you there?
not the doomed woman, for she took her final leap
two Christmases before, and her ring was found
on her withered hand

soft rain began to fall,
like a million tears for forlorn lovers
yet I stayed on the bridge, frozen in time and place
not from the shivering shower

but by the sight of one round, gold trinket
left for fickle fate after another circle had been broken
forever, for my eyes to see, at the edge
of another promised eternity

there is silence sandwiched between silence
thanks to the sudden cessation of their croaking
as if a plague took them, but it didn't

nor were they sleeping, nor were you,
at 0300 hours--you were between guard towers,
with an M60, and a hunger for sound

though you were picky about your song;
you longed for their familiar cadence, for
their green belched reassurance

that they would lay more eggs in the mire
and tails would grow, the swimmers would
become singers of familiar verse

but you could not wait for a resurrection
you did not know would occur--your duty would end
at dawn, and by then you could be dead deaf

from their silence

in a stadium,
in the nosebleed seats,
a lemon rind moon was all the light we had
when the city lost power

the crowd murmured, impatient
for the carnage to continue, players knelt
on the turf; their coach-gods commanded,
Let their be light!

I rose to leave, when I heard them
a canine symphony from jackals who escaped
the ranchers' sights, the dumb traps,
taunting us, the light seekers

who knew not how to comport
ourselves without electric diversion, without
staged battles, while they roamed the dark,
snouts angled towards a charcoal sky

sharing song and scent, sentient though not
like we, but content to be yip yapping in the autumn night
while we lamented the lack of light, and yearned yet
for different blood

I'm there,
an old portrait hanging on the wall
in need of a good dusting--past worthy
of restoration

passers-by will now and then pause
(more then than now), and wonder what my
two grey eyes saw, what my folded hands held,
what words came from my pursed lips

then came you, all dozen years of you:
maybe you liked old oils; maybe you were bored;
but you stopped, you ate a plump pear
while gazing

you squinted to see the signature
of the one who created me, though somehow
you knew there was but one creator
who gifted all brushes

you read the brass plaque
which summed up my life--three names and
eight digits, the last four a score before you were born
then you closed your young eyes

because you knew mine were closed
despite the painting's vain attempt to keep them open  
and you imagined you were asleep, waiting for a new sun,
or for another curious soul to stroll by

one who would take the time to look
and, like you, wonder, who I was, and why I was draped on this wall,
in this quiet hall, where you stood, pear in hand, finding color,
light, in my untold story