Sad Man

truthfully, I know little more of you than a photograph

a yellowing rectangle of a garden of weeds

an average man in a common blue shirt with thinning brown hair

and a squint against the churning sun

I am there in a calico dress with a finger in my mouth

staring at the interesting spectacle of my toe

how many times have I looked at that picture

not worth nearly a thousand words

what would they be if they were there

words and words and words floating quietly and softly

like powdered moths

but how many moths are the dead worth?

I remember the grass was tense as straw

and the bees were hot

and the cicadas hung like skeletons in the trees

it felt dry and dead and thirsty

I know you felt it too sad man

a thistle amongst the others

and a small dandelion sprouting sadly in a calico dress

you became a cliche 

a dirty man on a bench 

with an old paper blanket and a stumblingmumbling walk

living kicks and scorns and the withered apricots of pity

begging for change and always thirsty

I looked for you sad man

I dug in my pockets for everyone who asked

thinking they might have been you

but blue shirts are common these days

and I have grown out of my calico dress

the roots of weeds run deep and spread like quiet fire

until all that is left is the ash

and the thirst

and a yellowing rectangle of a garden of weeds

I remember the grass was tense as straw

and the bees were hot

and the cicadas hung like skeletons in the trees

— published in Looking for Trees (2009)