He thumb is green
He grows a lot.
Wether it's in age or flowers
Or weeding pots.
His dog is about as as gray as he
And they shuffle around outside
Shuffling.
He keeps his time well to himself.
No use for material wealth.
Keeps up his ride
Each Saturday at noon
Goes to church every Sunday with his wife
How cute.
Picks out the litter outside my porch
With his quiet little stroll and cane
While I smoke and watch.
We had a conversation about music once
About Simon and Garfunkel, Skeeter Davis, and the Beatles.
He has some ink on his arms from youth
Back when he was fighting wars too.
Military vet
I know cause his wife likes to brag.
He's always asking how my day was met.
And I asking to help
To carry his bags back to his house.
No thanks, I'm fine.
You're so kind to ask.
You don't hear those kind of words from my generation class.
I saw his kids visit only once.
Like gran Torino, he just tolerates the bunch.
Get off my lawn!
With a shotgun in hand.
He'd be so badass had he done that, man.
Always first with his helping hands
Trying to spruce up the surrounding land.
Maybe I would too if he
Showed me how to plant some seed.
My garden is imaginary
But real flowers grow on his side of the street.
The elderly gent in 608
Is someone I look for on a daily rate.
I wrote of him because he's entitled to
Being heard of and remembered too.
But don't tell him you heard it from the chick who lives in 702.

my ribs are doing that jerky
breathing thing again
and im not sure if it's the smell of
your perfume that's suffocating me,
or the replay of memories that are
still creeping into my brain
whispering in my ear "remember.."
pulling on each string of my heart
ripping and tearing it apart

the memories i spend over 15
hours a day trying to shove into the back of my head and forget,
i stupidly keep writing about

Pull up a chair
and rest a spell.
In your glance
I can see a tell.
Your heart is not here
when he's in town.
Your home fire
is burning down.

Come sit,
let's talk awhile.
I won't ask you
for a smile.
Here, now,
just take my hand.
Let us watch the sun
sink into the sand.

It is getting cold,
but the night is young.
There's still a fire in me
that has not been sung.
We can watch the moon
creep o'er the hill.
I'll sing for you
and warm the chill.

Pull up a chair,
let us talk awhile.
The night is young,
I can make you smile.
Take my hand
and make me feel.
There is a hearth here
that's burning still

r ~ 6/25/14