beneath his nails,
a raw knuckle,
a scar or fresh cuts along
his arm
or cheek,
i know he's one of us.
the slow
walk,
the bend of body,
the bloodshot eyes,
and look
of drink, the gaze.
i know about this.
about
the hours, his nights.
his days.
when i see the pail
next to his folded legs
as he sits
on his porch smoking.
his wife
at the door with her arms
folded,
warming a cold dinner.
i know about this,
i know
he's one of us.
No comments:
Post a Comment