a quick sketch
Walker
I met an old friend last night,
it was something like a reunion.
Some others were there, I couldn't
quite place them, but we were
having fun, talking and eating,
lots of laughing—and planning.
My friend was moving, and he
wanted to wash his pickup
before the move. I said, "Walker,
why before the move?" And
he said, "Oh man! I'm going to
be driving into that white desert,
and it's going to be beautiful
and I want everything to be perfect."
Just like Walker to enthuse
over something the rest of us
wouldn't even notice. I went
off to the kitchen for more food,
and I thought, coming back
into the room—I'm going to
come back here after I finish
the semester and get a job.
And then I woke and told
Martha about my dream, that
I saw Walker again, and it was
a good dream, and I'm only
telling the parts I can remember,
and even so I'm getting it wrong.
The point is—I saw Walker, and
he was himself. He was my best
friend, he died at forty-nine,
which means I haven't seen him
in seventeen years. He was my
Japhy Ryder, a saint and a
wild man, and I wonder if the
white desert was a metaphor.
Poetry by jim
Read 78 times
Written on 2020-03-25 at 14:32
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Ann Wood |
Lawrence Beck |
Texts |
by jim Latest textsSomething to do with AgeZephyr Taps illuminate The Jade Plant |
Increase font
Decrease