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Through his whiskey teeth
by Meghan HelmichThe picket signs are put to bed
just before the old man
gets plastered in the window
of the abandoned house
on Florida Avenue.
I visit only when I have something
that can be shared in tumblers
because eventually
he will start throwing the wicker around.
We light some candles
with a book of matches
from his stay on the Queen Mary
before it was just a floating hotel of spirits.
None of those pansies in the streets
has any idea what it's like
to blast a hole through the sun, he says.
He knows it's only a short stumble
to the next town
and all its promises. 11/14/2011 Posted on 11/14/2011
Copyright © 2024 Meghan Helmich
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 11/14/11 at 09:37 PM A short stumble, with a hell of a first step, I'm sure. Loved this. Every single perfect image. |
| Posted by Shannon McEwen on 11/14/11 at 09:59 PM the imagery here is fantastic |
| Posted by Sal Haefling on 11/15/11 at 02:25 PM "before it was just a floating hotel of spirits"...reminds me of cassadaga. I really liked this one, I don't think you showed me this one yesterday. |
| Posted by Lori Blair on 11/28/11 at 03:42 AM A short stumble is all he believes it to be..loved this..you depict so much more than most could convey..Excellent! |
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