On Swift Feet

for my uncle. RIP.

the tragedy your life befell

at a young age

off the high roof

seemed much too harsh

too paralyzed,

(like your spine)

to tell.

so you were always a quiet man,

the rims of the wheels glinted

like lucy in the sky

with diamonds,

and would brake gently like your tired eyes

across the blurring smoky floor.

your study was always a pocket of fresh air,

down the dusky darkened hall.

The sun filled the grooves of shiny terra tiles

swirling, the wind, always passing

the tangerine trees, the yellow green flowers

and through your open door.

you were a patient man,

for the bedroom on the other side

dressed in its cleanest gray,

was no sanctuary like your study.

no stereo no beloved tapes no tokens of sixties rock,

only a standing bed with heavy straps

to keep the blood flow through your legs

as you hung on through each night.

but those restraints became so tiring--

the wheels repetitive, too sharp.

and

like a silent film

you would roll in the cigarette-stuffed

kitchen, staring out the window

talk often of the weather,

an old song.

and I would sit with you there

nod, smile.

your speech bubbles were often empty

--sometimes broken--

always hard to understand.

but the songs were never hard to sing:

of octopus gardens, rolling stones

with laughing teeth.

and the morn you released your arms,

unbuckled the thick belts

from your hospital bed

the evening you tied the crows to your hands

the day you cleared your purple haze

leaving Elvis Lennon and Dylan next to the stereo,

the night your ashtray kitchen and your study room flowers sang

"let it be"

I could wish nothing more

than complete bliss

and perhaps

for you to send my regards to Noah, John.

running now...

through those strawberry fields.

Author's Note

disregard the poor grammar.

Reviews

[Akeen V.]

its good besides grammer