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#assistwilliamkennedy
They’d signed on for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, Though they’d never dreamed that poor and sick Would arrive with such ferocity, Such vengeance, such utter malice. Difficult to say how they found their way To this particular section of down: Too little of a taste for the three R’s, too much for two-buck chuck, The whys, wherefores, and timelines not mattering much When you’re falling ass-over-teacup Jack-and-Jill style down life’s hill. They’d tumbled far enough to be holed up In the front room of a structure approximating a house Down on Elizabeth Street, Looking like a Home Sweet Home a six-year old might draw, Stairs, doorways, and window casings All uneven and madly impressionist, The thing not particularly successful at being air or water-tight (If the folks from animal welfare found a dog in the place, They’d be likely to go in and get it somewhere safe.) They are huddled under what sheets and afghans The nuns from Saint Rose were able to cobble together for them And so they lay in ancient and unsteady sofa-like objects, All but unable to move (Though if he groans and thrashes enough to bare arms and legs, She will summon something from somewhere And painfully shuffle over to him To retrieve and re-arrange his coverings) Nowhere to go, no one to go see or to come see them, Little left to do but wait for God (*Closer to Jordan than the Hudson, Far as rivers go*, he is wont to say) To belatedly disburse some mercy, divine or otherwise, Then to be pine-boxed and potter’s-fielded. They have never see fit to ask any why-thems: Little time for such luxuries, perhaps, Or maybe the questions and answers simply more of a burden Than the already over-burdened can bear, Or maybe, as she said to one of the nuns Who comes now and then to do what little they can, *Lord reveals things to us in a whisper, And an angry stomach and shiverin’ bones Conspire to make such a woeful noise*.
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Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
wk-kortas
the couple at the bottom of the world
They’d signed on for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, Though they’d never dreamed that poor and sick Would arrive with such ferocity, Such vengeance, such utter malice. Difficult to say how they found their way To this particular section of down: Too little of a taste for the three R’s, too much for two-buck chuck, The whys, wherefores, and timelines not mattering much When you’re falling ass-over-teacup Jack-and-Jill style down life’s hill. They’d tumbled far enough to be holed up In the front room of a structure approximating a house Down on Elizabeth Street, Looking like a Home Sweet Home a six-year old might draw, Stairs, doorways, and window casings All uneven and madly impressionist, The thing not particularly successful at being air or water-tight (If the folks from animal welfare found a dog in the place, They’d be likely to go in and get it somewhere safe.) They are huddled under what sheets and afghans The nuns from Saint Rose were able to cobble together for them And so they lay in ancient and unsteady sofa-like objects, All but unable to move (Though if he groans and thrashes enough to bare arms and legs, She will summon something from somewhere And painfully shuffle over to him To retrieve and re-arrange his coverings) Nowhere to go, no one to go see or to come see them, Little left to do but wait for God (*Closer to Jordan than the Hudson, Far as rivers go*, he is wont to say) To belatedly disburse some mercy, divine or otherwise, Then to be pine-boxed and potter’s-fielded. They have never see fit to ask any why-thems: Little time for such luxuries, perhaps, Or maybe the questions and answers simply more of a burden Than the already over-burdened can bear, Or maybe, as she said to one of the nuns Who comes now and then to do what little they can, *Lord reveals things to us in a whisper, And an angry stomach and shiverin’ bones Conspire to make such a woeful noise*.
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