...the chubby penny
...music man
photographic suicide
it was black and white in a world void of color
—yet the story it told was endless—
all he owned to prove he really lived.
it didn’t matter to anyone else
that gray trees stood against a gray sky
a shade lighter than the gray grass.
the photograph was paper, easily torn,
like his darkened heart,
discarded, once used.
he could hear his mother cry out
—and the sobbing of his sister—
in the simple scene of emptiness and pain.
it didn’t rain,
yet the clouds that danced in stillness
were pallid gray.
it doesn’t matter anymore that he ripped his life in half
when he destroyed his only boyhood photograph.
it was black and white in a world void of color.
you left me alone on that mid-morning in june when white roses saluted the sun trapped by the pain of yesterday you lay crying for your soul while stranded on a memory of a september night the touch of your fingertips or the song on your lips yet i know they died in november when the snow fell i only wanted to say it doesn’t matter anymore i pretended you loved me enough to go away but while i stood alone with suitcase in hand i knew i was waiting for a bus that would never come
bus stop
i never knew your eyes or goodnight kisses
deep down i still yearn for summer morning hugs
tears on the street
they found him on the back side
of a life which headed down
a whiskey bottle ruled his mind
...the only friend he’d ever found
his body wore deep wrinkles
so long before it’s time
his words were grouped together
then glued with cheap red wine
the only coat upon his back
was the silence he’d always worn
and he took it with him as he left
it was enough to keep him warm
his daydreams left him stranded
just hopeful shadows on the ground
and the silent voices in his head
became the evenings only sound
he wore his coat of silence well
and pushed the words aside
shattered dreams like darkness fell old charlie left pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters, heads facing down. no precious coins, none older than a decade, none worth more than face value, dead presidents on most. latin and english, olive branches, oak branches on some. e pluribus unum —out of many, one— on each. a collection that didn’t mean much— except that he left it. and he didn’t. it wasn’t much, just everything he owned.
‘til in emptiness the old man died
collection
a coin collection…
was all that remained of his life;
eagles and monuments,
in god we trust, liberty,
silver, gold, copper—
always said you can’t take it with you…
music man
i watched them move the park bench
while the music man waited,
hungry for the sound of breakfast
rattling in rusted and worn trash cans.
there is so much you can learn
about a broken man by watching him weep
when the smallness of his world shrinks
and rudely moves to another corner not so far away
in his eyes he wondered why his world was stolen
when presidents still have a place to sit—
away from the hollow clatter of street music
made loud by the search of a man who lived too long
to count the mornings since he first died
the park bench was gone when i looked again
and the music man sat sadly alone
hoping for a slice of bread from the table of beggars
before he walked back to his empty space home
his park bench had once been his hardened bed
just a simple place to lay his head
for a moment, silence replaced his gospel song
as calloused people saw there was nothing wrong.
chocolate shops and shoes with a sole
he walked eighty-seven steps from meal to meal
rummaging through too many cans for such a small town
from dented metal barrels he got his fill
before the collection on wednesday when he made the rounds
rain water somehow had the taste of imported beer
and his want of a cigarette bordered on pain
so he pulled the old ashtray up closer than near
and sorted through the ashes one more time again
he craved the touch of raw sex, dripping with sweat
but hookers with needles just weren’t his kind
so in the darkest dark corners his hand was all he could get
it wasn’t much but it was the best an old man could find
when a man has only a single pair of faded jeans
and a buttonless collar on a button down shirt
and shoes as mismatched as his misguided dreams
he can only feel as good as yesterday’s hurt
his left shoe was brown, badly worn and size ten
his right, size eleven, stuffed with a cardboard sole
covering the place where italian leather once had been
but cardboard can never really cover the hole
so many days he vowed he would stop
no more scavenging through dirty backdoor cans
he felt like a fat boy’s quarter in a chocolate shop
but the quarter, like life, just slipped through his hands
yesterday was chicken wings and half a hotdog bun
and roast beef in a blue napkin, tightly squeezed
a bit of a burger cooked a little too done
but it was all edible so he was well pleased
he said “five more cans and at last i am done.
i’ll give thanks for everything i received today.”
he stepped up his pace to beat the setting sun
then lifted his hands and began to pray,
“without fail, god, you have always cared for me.
i’ve rarely missed a meal and had plenty to spare,
and you’ve listened to my every plea
and when i needed you, god, you were there.”
then he proclaimed america is such a wonderful place,
especially beneath the watson bridge at willow street.
then he brushed away the tears streaming down his face
and removed the mismatched shoes from his tired, aching feet.
when he closed his eyes at night he dreamed
about passionate sex, chocolate shops, and shoes with a sole,
not sure that life was all it once seemed
but the smile on his face said god is in control.
they found him early one morning near the start of spring
beneath the watson bridge at willow street
and in the flowering trees you could hear all the birds sing
about heaven’s new angel with new shoes on his feet.
naked mattress
the naked mattress seemed more abandoned
than on nights gone by
when european percale sheets
lifted like a kite from the corners
as though they had somewhere to go
and struggled passionately to get there.
the sagging mattress appeared cold—
now that she looked at it
from the way he had always seen it—
bare and abused by bodies that left tears and sweat.
as she lay crying, face buried in her hands,
her tear-stained lips kissed the only flesh she knew.
her heart abandoned just like the barren mattress,
she was suddenly aware of the putrid smell
lingering from more nights than she cared to know
and more men than she dared remember.
she saw no form in the wrinkled sheets
and the corners that had betrayed her
—corners that once defined the pattern—
now laid limp on the dusty hardwood floor
like the man she had exhausted with her passion.
on his back he seemed desolate
with no blanket to warm his outstretched body
and no sheets to protect his misplaced dignity.
she cried, wondering who he was and why he stayed white horses if not for white horses i would have cried— it is all a blur now that the door has closed, i wish he had stepped out before closing the door, if not for white horses i would have cried— i heard sobbing —quieted.—
when he could have abandoned her in the night
and left her life more stained than the naked mattress.
or perhaps i did.
after the man took away my dignity.
(before i knew what the word meant.)
perhaps then life would make sense
and my heart would know how to love
as easily as i clutch white roses in november.
or perhaps i did.
before the drumbeat of my heart
everybody hurts REM