Brian

Brian How does one address a man who lives under a railway bridge? there were no raspberry candles glowing upon crystal stems only the smell of creosote prevailed I saw Brian that evening as I walked back to my car tired from a day of trout fishing He asked had I been prosperous I could feel the weight in my creel and replied “Yes” his fire was already started for warmth, and to keep away skunks he added I shared my catch, and he his life He smelled of urine and his hair was oiled but it was the inside of the man that was actually soiled one night, his wife wore a dress of sky blue and on cloudless days, his eyes shower storms of love, loss, and sorrow near this bridge a turn in the river, where the road followed the tire blew, and the car he drove rolled she, in a hushed whisper said “Brian, I love you, and I will wait” she left, but it was he who died for on that night he lost his treasured bride we sat and talked until dawn eroded the chill yet his words through the night were as sunlight I drove home to my address, turned the key and unlocked secrets I had treasures not so much in my home, my car or even my job but in angels like Brian who wear wings on earth material possessions may come and go but the touch of human life is like silver © Copyright 2001 1st Poet Inc. William S. Dawes August 11, 2001 Written November 26th, 2001 © on Nov 26 2001 08:52 AM PST   0 • 1