Icicles replaced his *bicicleta, *free range turned brittle sticks,
the boys he warmed dried to new touch, what now,
inquired the neighbors, show your papers, screamed
the fragile fraidies, casting pebbles, shards, and lawn tools
in his now-not-buoyant direction. Threats of infection
rampant now, benoodled clackety strums that used to
soothe split-endpoint hairline nervous tension.
What to say to this casperian flounce of what once was?
Perhaps a gentle print of nudge on egg-frail
forearms not recently revived, maybe a kisslet
on his eyebrow, possibly a quarter cuddle while he's still
a pint or so alert until the next binge of precise demands
when all purgatorial refrains come due and screechy
relics in the choir claim him as a member.
Nurse him, invokes a mother, break his stride, exhorts
paternal one, revoke his license to swerve between the traffic lines
and let him wait to speak, at which point
listeners will be scarce as souls covered by medicaid,
and altar cloths will have been scheduled for a poise
of dryer time, post lashing on the stones
available where creek beds have survived
their history of water and its glide.
Sheila E. Murphy
|