Dramatic Language

That Wednesday morning I met a man with service boots
and an unlit cigarette clamped between his lips
He had penetrating, desperate eyes and a nervous,
rain-cloud mind, and he passed time by counting memories,
which he pulled out one by one.
He disappeared that year, out of the city and the gray
behind the veil of medical solutions,
he'd tried to kill his demons and feed them to the pigeons.
For one hour and sixteen minutes before he had been locked up,
All he had said to me was that there were decent people in the world,
and he pulled my hand and held it
to his warm and desperate heart.

1 comment:

Poppy said...

Oh, your poetry is so beautiful