Dreamers Are Gluttons There is a place for us, the bedraggled, befuddled,
joyless creatures anemic with the hepatatic
urge to take on dreams before bodies blush with cold and slowly dissolve into the
blue themselves. We turn the note of tongue’s sugar into a
glazed whisper coat the ears of our dying with a verveless, inebriated
language none understand. I’m not ashamed to say it, the man in the picture was beautiful:
dark eyes, wavy hair, loose uniform on a solid frame,
ramiform fingers knuckling the ball, cocksure and confident that he had it, the it
most men fear never quite grasping – that
sense of purpose – but, that was before the Yankees
sent him to college, before the shoulder let loose of
itself, before the dock accident,
before his son could hide his
disappointment. Now it’s Pal Malls
window-side, one eye on the threshold
spying for the orderly, slow on order and slower on denying the
dying anything, the other eye on the night
sky looking for the rumor of his
glorious past which is like smelling
ghost-shit in a hospital bed. Darkness to light, hand to
mouth, the simple motion sustains him as he daydreams
of the game, the cold beer, the surfeit admiration a son offers a father for the
perfect strike, perfect meal, perfect
piggy back. Defining sadness with
synonyms is the cruelest thing we have
ever done. |
