A Story

He told himself a story
Long and old
Taking in the words
Caressing the leather cover
Drinking in the incense

It was a soul poultice
For life's shrapnel
Buried beneath his skin
Now applied
Let it work.

He was fine until
The week his father died.
The book fell open
And the words scattered like mice
Scurring for the darkness

II.

He wrapped his hands
Around the pictures for long hours
Even as the musty odor invaded
In the tiny room
Showering him with memories

Unwrapping his hands
He saw his father's spirit
In his palms' road maps
Remembering his words
Lemon tears flowed.

He staggered for two seasons
As if the planets
Suddenly fell out of alignment
Bumped noisily
Was God watching?

25 April 2004

~Dave~
 

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