Monday, May 10, 2010
Rolled sleeves, he pulled his glasses down.
Rubbed his nose where little indentations were.
His head heavy and fingers stubby
His mind tapped lettered keys.
Where would this silent journey begin and end?
A leopard lie buried in drifting snows.
His mind floated in the thin air of Kilimanjaro.
Each breath came heavy, swirling in vertigo.
Harry has a gangrenous leg. Vultures are gathering.
She wants to read to him again; dreaming of rescue.
A pistol lies in the opened desk drawer, just in case.
Harry wants whiskey. His own glass is empty.
He loves the bitch but love is just a pile of dung.
Floating pink petals remind him of Paris in spring.
Death is imminent and his talent wasted.
Why couldn’t he simply write that down?