The 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
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