FlightHe comes to visit
my friend's crazy son.
I'm not sure why.
A frisson of fear
outweighed by compassion
and a bit of wonder.
The year he works at
an auto sales he
arrives in a spiffy silver
four door, AC, push-button locks
something an insurance
salesman might choose. Certainly
not myself.
"Let's take it for a test drive," he says.
"You'll be sold."
Now and then I feed him lunch.
Once, I find him standing at the back
of his car, trunk open,
brushing his teeth.
A jug of water and a spit cup.
He calls me asking
for a ride to the bus station.
I find him leaping around
his living room searching for a sock
an open suitcase on the floor
clothes scattered.
"We just have a few minutes,"
I say.
"Let me drive," he asks as he throws
himself and his suitcase together.
I decline.
Later, I picture myself a prisoner as
he drives past the bus and onward to Maine.
The scent of his aftershave lingers for weeks.
photo courtesy of Willow. For more stories and poems evolving from this image see Magpie Tales.
