I remember;

the Joe-Bird
with his Bert-shaped
bullet head.
I don't know,
maybe a group home,
a kitchen helper
some place...

when Hube's father
had the stroke,
none of us
knew which way
to turn
whenever he began
to cry...

Fat Bob,
reddened and
running at recess,
six Zulu blow-darts
piercing his thigh,
one of them
mine…

Chuck, those terrible
metal crutches,
writhing
the hallway, a
pointed paper
plane bounced
off his back...

pain
strength
finally,
finally I see.

05/10/2008

Author's Note: slow train

Posted on 05/10/2008
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