|
Frank
Frank's got skin the color
of the coal they heat hell with,
and eyes as white as truth, he's preaching as if we are all
damned and its nothing more than one big joke, and to him
it is, he controls the floor and the ebb and flow of conversation
as if he were the moon commanding the tides.
He sips coffee from an old
plastic cup like it were wine at
communion, and eats leftover doughnuts, licking runaway
cream off dirty fingers, his voice is like that of a tenor sax
or speeding trumpet hitting note after note, story after story,
like a man in a mad dash to get out truth before death.
He tells of a woman he loved
in Iowa once, and of another
he laid in Boston, I stare down at a half filled page in a
notebook, another attempt at the perfect poem, Frank
deserves perfection as much as anyone, probably more, the
meat in my words are only a snack for one of his appetite.
He pockets the change from
my last five bucks after buying
another cup of coffee, raps me on the shoulder as if I were
some kid brother, as he slips out the door like a lie.......
or perfection
|
