Picture that bus stop
the one where you met her
how the air was splayed open
by the cold sore of early
morning noise.
Remember the smoke of
isolated moments.
How you offered each
other nothing:
she a discarded smile,
you a throw-away stare.
Picture a night with a
moon blushing throuh a
mascara of stars
Now at the very edge of
your senses
you hunger for a mere glance
a nostril,
a flare of lips
Maybe if you rally your resources
you could arrive in her life
the way we arrived on
the moon
Down by the river
the sailor boys (and girls) play
out months of pent up
emotions
running on 12-foot swells,
a war and days away from
the ones that will wake
up and cook breakfast
for years to come.
The roses and rain
and all of the unimaginable
things that humans crave -
cotton candy, sex and booze
Cheap nights out on the
downtown that
plays out like a melody
lost in another forgotten tune.
The flags embrace
a flower bed grave
or tall tails
from a backside poker game
left for the sinful
and gestures
and the ball game
never to be replayed.
Old Ray leans into Yamhill.
He says that he has seen
war and peace and presidents -
and “all the shit in between...”
He wears a flag among the stains
on his age-worn serge lapel.
He shuffles in his broken shoes
and mighty tales to tell.
His pants are soaked in urine.
There’s spittle on Ray’s cheek.
Ray says, “Hi-do...” to the girls
who walk away and do not speak.
Ray tells of days unseen by most
of the young who avoid his path.
Just a dusty old wino, Raymond,
insultated by Everclear and wrath.
Don’t even offer him your spare change.
Don’t ask him if he’s old
Ray “never asked for nothin’”
especially growing old.
