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The Leatherman
by Jared OrlandoHe was a giant man with giant sensibilities and eyes like small pinholes and I love him but now he’s dead.
I continued on and wasted my days like candy wrappers and prayed on a white sculpture because someone said that’s how I’d get to the pearly place.
But I keep going back there.
We’d practice pyrography on old leather straps and make snowflake shapes like doilies and drink Highland Park out of tin tumblers.
Coughing he’d say things like “Holy shit on a cracker!” and I’d laugh and cough, too.
But toward the end of it all he started serving our drinks in styrofoam cups, still stained with hot red muscadine, or maybe it was Robitussin.
His hacking wasn’t from the harsh peat but you can’t blame me for not knowing.
We shoveled him off the ground with timid arms and you’ve never felt cold like that of a bloodless best friend. 11/12/2015 Posted on 11/12/2015
Copyright © 2024 Jared Orlando
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Felicia Aguilar on 11/12/15 at 09:10 PM You captured so much grief in so few words. I had a friend like this and I still "going back there" too, as well as writing him into poems. Good write. |
| Posted by Rob Littler on 11/13/15 at 05:23 PM ...mindful to lose the mind, oh Bruddah of the Sponge Of Humanity. I like the image and the way I am in the room coughing, laughing too, whilst the voice is totally separate. More images of the narrator doing subtle reveals and you have a short story. As it is it is a novel anyway. |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 11/15/15 at 04:06 PM Worthy prosaic story telling. Kudos! |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 11/16/15 at 01:08 AM Vivid, loved your images, hard stuff to read but compelling. Your style is unique, graphic, and great reading. |
| Posted by Paul Lastovica on 11/19/15 at 12:58 AM I miss my best friend; I can't write about it though. At least not in any direct sense like this. I feel this to the core. |
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