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Mr. Flick's Party
by David HillMr. Flick is drifting.
He walks the dust and dirty,
sifting
layers in his leathered lungs.
So secure, so it seemed,
with a paycheck and a loom
in a one-horse textile town.
And his woman;
to trace her with his fingers,
(mound of Venus),
a heaven at hand…
One parted promise
then another.
Oh Christ, the reflection;
a flea bag scratching
empty ribs.
He shakes a feeble fist up
at the corpse upon the hill.
Past the city limit
he stumbles up the
chinking cinders,
steadies there and drinks
darkly and most deep.
A rest,
just a moment’s rest,
he locks eyes
with the laughing moon.
There’s a tremor in the rail
and a winding whistle on the wind…
Can’t you hear it, Mr. Flick?
05/29/2011 Author's Note: A tribute to Night Train Express Wine. I hear that train a comin'.
Posted on 05/30/2011
Copyright © 2026 David Hill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Sandy M. Humphrey on 05/30/11 at 05:52 AM Very vivid imagery, and I too can hear the train. very well done. smh |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 05/30/11 at 03:10 PM There is much here to enjoy. I like the drifting/sifting sequence; the "one horse textile town"; the "flea bag scratching" is brilliant; all the alliterative action in S4; the moon's participation - the lingering ending. Thank you. |
| Posted by James Zealy on 06/01/11 at 03:28 PM Loss and despair are crafted well here. The last stanza gives a feel of a tormented sould that will get his chance at peace at last. |
| Posted by Gail Wolper on 08/09/14 at 12:04 AM Brillant! |
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