His smile was
dawn's slip
into a darkened room.
The hat he wore
(syrup sticky
from the dumpster
outside the local Waffle-House)
sat cocked to the left
on his head,
the mimic of Pisa
a dream never seen.
His hands slick as a greased
hairless feline, rummaged
my purse with hope
that its void could spare
a dollar or two.
His voice purred, hypnotic
baritone, sensuous as Flack's croon
of promised sunrises.
But, it was the speak
of his eyes that engaged me,
telling a story of way when.
Portals to swirled
Coffee-House yesterdays,
highs of maryjane,
taps of beatnik pads,
delusions of petal power.
Cool Cat Wilson
gorged with peace,
love and happiness.
He's boarded here
and now's bus, taking rides
that fray his pants,
tatter his hat,
gray his beard,
ride man, ride
there's no getting off.
poetry
Powered by ScribeFire.
No comments:
Post a Comment