February Sixth
On a stormy Monday night I listened to the voice of the howling hawk- a sound of terror and danger for some, but, for most, just a concrete reflection of numbers in a forecast Most never see fingers that cannot be moved and never feel blood that thickens, slows and finally, stops its flow The brutal hawk blows decaying leaves and street debris across the sidewalks, grates and alleys that are home for some; its steely fingers penetrate through layers of blankets, clothing and flesh Tuesday evening, three random strangers told me "Stay warm tonight," but none offered shelter. Here's a hope: that those three slept restlessly in their warm beds that night And here's a thought: next morning, I learned that a man I'd seen many mornings at my breakfast table would be seen no more; before then, I had never known his name And I felt the blood that thickens, slows and finally, stops its flow and I felt the mourning for those who quietly leave this earth, their names unknown until it's too late to speak to them.in memory of Arnold Scoggins, who died on the morning of February 5th, on the steps leading into a soup kitchen. I finally know his name. Written February 7th, 2002 © on Feb 07 2002 04:48 AM PST 10 • 0 • 1
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"On a stormy Monday night..."