On Swift Feet

the tragedy your life befell
at a young age
off the high roof
seemed much too harsh
too paralyzed,
(like your spine)
to tell.

so you were always a quiet man,
the rims of the wheels glinted
like lucy in the sky
with diamonds,
and would brake gently like your tired eyes
across the blurring smoky floor.

your study was always a pocket of fresh air,
down the dusky darkened hall.
The sun filled the grooves of shiny terra tiles
swirling, the wind, always passing
the tangerine trees, the yellow green flowers
and through your open door.

you were a patient man,
for the bedroom on the other side
dressed in its cleanest gray,
was no sanctuary like your study.
no stereo no beloved tapes no tokens of sixties rock,
only a standing bed with heavy straps
to keep the blood flow through your legs
as you hung on through each night.

but those restraints became so tiring--
the wheels repetitive, too sharp.

and

like a silent film
you would roll in the cigarette-stuffed
kitchen, staring out the window

talk often of the weather,
an old song.

and I would sit with you there
nod, smile.

your speech bubbles were often empty
--sometimes broken--
always hard to understand.

but the songs were never hard to sing:
of octopus gardens, rolling stones
with laughing teeth.

and the morn you released your arms,
unbuckled the thick belts
from your hospital bed
the evening you tied the crows to your hands
the day you cleared your purple haze
leaving Elvis Lennon and Dylan next to the stereo,
the night your ashtray kitchen and your study room flowers sang
"let it be"

I could wish nothing more
than complete bliss
and perhaps
for you to send my regards to Noah, John.
running now...

through those strawberry fields.