Wheelchair maniac.
One arm,
one leg,
mangled in a war --
aren't all forgotten heroes? --
left to rot in a place
that no longer
felt like a home.
Geezer taught me
the secrets of a trade
he called living.
When I listened,
I knew --
he was telling me
the truth.
It wasn't friendship.
I was always afraid of him.
More like morbid curiosity,
and the old man's need
to share.
He told me
one day
that he was dying.
I didn't care.
I was young,
and his rotten floor
was creaking.
That was more
concern to me.
He said:
"Boy,"
Creeee
"you'll understand some day,"
eeeeeaaaaaaaa
"I been trying
to help you see."
aaaaaaaaakkkkkkkk.
The next day
he was gone.
I don't miss Geezer.
Didn't really like him
that well.
Now his words
make sense
though.
I wish
I had listened
more.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012
1 comment:
This definitely leaves one with a haunting sense. Those words that follow you even though you don't want them but truth has a way of taggin along, doesn't it. Very good, Frank. Touching as well.
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