poem: wE aRe aLL JunKIes sOMe DayS

18 Nov

We Are All Junkies Some Days


the sun sits above trees and mountains
and yellow sand deserts
there are no clouds
only
a slight breeze

monsoon season lingers in Arizona
black storm clouds gather over Oklahoma
her voice gray and dying
a mother should not have to bury her son

he places a phone call
not from concern but selfishness
perhaps
his own needs
for the moment
their arrangement simple
her voice changes everything
in an instant
his skin washes clean

the Post Office crowds with last minute shippers
paying bills and buying stamps
they rush between here and there
without concern or understanding
there have miles of their own yet to travel

alone in a stairwell
her voice
drifts
her thoughts
fade
he listens
as his mother taught him
as his heart tells him
he listens
as words tumble and spill
a brook into a stream into a river
into the forgiving sea

each day
addiction winks in different forms
different shades
prices change daily
just like Walmart, just like breathing
we all have moments, weakness, fear
we are all junkies some days

he remains
objective
supportive
as he listens
flecks of humor fill his speech
he can hear her smile
however brief
fifteen-hundred miles away
he has nothing to offer
maybe a few words
a few minutes of something else

a casket waits to be lowered
six feet of earth

tomorrow a sun will rise
a dog might bark
dealers may profit
a butterfly lands at the end of a green branch
and i sit patiently
waiting for it
to fly again

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