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Walking Through Life
Poetry by Merle P. Martin
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Excerpts
Mirror
Paunch,
wrinkling,
hair shrinking,
grey with dandruff,
eyelids sinking.
Shaving's become a
lot less fun.
Snowbound
Denver, 13 degrees, blinding snow.
"For those expecting arrival of
Continental flight 95,
because of prevailing conditions
its estimated arrival time
is now 2:35,
we will depart for Seattle at 3.”
people crammed
everywhere
crabby kids
paperless johns
ashtrays heaping
lined snack-bars
old men whining
bar a pile of cluttered
tensions drinking time
gnawing a rubbery hot dog
at a window in that bar
chaos reigns
catering rigs
baggage caravans
trucks carting snow
darting late planes
skidding to gates
"Your attention, please!
For those expectant awaitees
of flight 95
from Miami and Fort Lauderdale,
because of prevailing weather
the re-estimated arrival time
is Saturday."
Across the Way
Is that him?
Market Street at Geary.
Bursting buses and trolleys.
Stoic masses mill to workday cages,
allowing only glimpses across.
I think that’s him!
It could be any of the
San Francisco homeless.
What’s the likelihood he’d
be here, at this time, after
vanishing years ago?
His nose is mine,
same balding genes.
Untangled beard,
thick woolen coat,
sucking a cigarette,
McDonald's cup beside.
Unsullied backpack
propped below, not
seeming destitute.
He doesn’t see me.
Too busy quarreling with
those voices inside. I want to cross,
sit next to him and say, “Charles,
my son, what can I do to help?”
Instead, I scurry back to my hotel. Cowardice?
Shame? Fear he won’t know me, or maybe will?
Leery something I might say would incite
his voices to public rage? They have told me
not to confront his paranoid schizophrenia.
After weighing “should” and “shouldn’t”
I tread back to his intersection.
Next day too, and the next,
each time I’ve visited since.
I never see him again.
Was that really him across the way?
Purchase Walking Through Life here.
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