You are like a sparrow that is not here:
The fat guy with the white mustacheThe Asian lady nearby, smiling, listening to a bronze skinned guy (next table over) under the umbrella of the caf, next to mine: Were all just people going to die, under the naked sky, some stuck in beehives. Were all thinking its far off, thinking it will never come to that, but death comes, we see it all around, it just isnt our time, and Im just a meat packers son, making a rhyme.
Old man, they call me now, capped with a receding hairline, a few white hairs, here and there, a drought, rising inside my brain, knotted muscles everywhere; once unimaginable, like vapor clouds in my eyes. I see my Mother in that old sofa chair, shes saying, I never expected to live so long, how strange it seemed back then, now, I got one upstairs.
My saga is hammering, I live in a labyrinthine circle, with root deep bones, knuckles, shoulder, chromosomes, breaking down; dreams not worth much anymo re: they come during darkness and vanish before dawn. I have a grimace on my face, like the cool breeze from the ocean, which moistens my eyes; winter in Lima is always too unruffled, upon the topsoil of my face.
The old fat mans gone to the can; to my left, the new breed, he sits at the table, computer above his knees, a cup of coffee, by his elbow, nothing else, hes got the world by the tail, but it looks to me like a lonely table.
The fat man now is standing, looking for change; Ill never see him again! He got his camera in hand; I wonder if hell live to see the pictures, I hope he so. But I suppose I really dont care, out of sight, out of mind, Im just a meat packers son, one with a soft face, crab-claws who fought in Vietnam.
Mother, Mother, what ill-bred son, have you so wisely kept, if you could see me again? Im mouth less, eyeless, bald and fat, it would have killed you instead. Mother, you praised my Poetry once, un-teachable I was, but I learned, I learned dear motherand now you are somewhere floating above me, listening. Like bluebirds that never were, life has come and left her. And left me in the kingdom you bore me to, you even had to help me tie my shoes, so helpless I must have been, way back when. My eyes nowadays, seem as if they are in milk-covered glasses; I was proud to be a meat packers son, I still am, I told everyone, under this now, flat dull sun.
I wonder where the old fat man went? Like life to death, he came and diminished; wonder if he was a hell of an old warrior, like my mother and I: lifting the delicate hammers in life, catgut stitches on our hearts. Peaceable she died, with the Lord, Jesus Christ by her side.
I wonder if they have bald angels up above, insane world down here: like entering a nightmare; waitin g for death, for the wood and stones over our heads.
[End
Images of light are flimsy, I have leaf-size veins, that seem to have a lack of action, filled with something; I used to call my mother The Queen bee, she used to smile when I said that, like sugar roses; Im on my second cup of coffee, a heat lamp over my head, the night market of Miraflores, is being set up, over in the park, everyones looking to me, to be, camouflaged, conspicuous.
Im looking about, tables, tables, heads and bodies, I think a meat packers son, how shed love to come home and tell me of all the gossip going on, down at the stockyards, like snowflakes, in Minnesota, falling down over head, and we laughed; I wonder how many boxes of bacon, she had to pack?
#1405 7/29/2006 [3:00 PM; written at El Parquetito, Miraflores, and Lima, Peru: Dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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