Thread: The Local

Quite a true story.

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In the wake of summer’s most delicate touch,
the hungry man sits in the shade.
Work has worn his fingers
and now he whimpers
silently.

“A girl used to follow you with a brass ponytail
she tried to call you father once”
Wordless, his eyes tumble
in that black pit, heavy
glass.

We’ll hand him his curse and call it courage.
We’ll ignore his eyes on the clock,
or the stain on his ring finger,
or the budding giggles from
school.

By the night’s close he’ll have loosened his tongue
and joke about Sarah, or the old duvet
in his truck. He says things will pick up,
with each line growing on his
face.

The hungry man enjoys the moon in his stumbling,
bumbling, forgetting stupor. Maybe he hears
a child’s promise pitching to the wind.
We’ll see him tomorrow,
tearless, sober.

Powerful word picture! Common theme (I have several myself) but fresh insights. My favorite line is, "We’ll hand him his curse and call it courage." Perfect!
Phyllis