poetrywriter
12-09-2000, 07:44 AM
patrol
You can adjust a clock to his arrival:
10:30 AM, give or take a minute or two.
Bob is always an unbalanced sight
passing through the entrance of the cemetery:
a long wooden pole in one hand, a plastic grocery bag
in the other, and mirrored aviator sunglasses
that dominate his face.
"The key to a successful retirement is comfort," he says,
motioning to brushed-twill pants and chalk-white tennis sneakers.
The wooden perimeter that surrounds the monuments
is roughly an eigth of a mile in length:
this is the focus of Bob's patrol.
He has no friends or family here,
only the memory of past acquaintences with matching names.
"I knew a Vincenzo," he declares,
as if discovering a twenty in a pair of old slacks.
"Some people are either lazy, or they don't have any respect,"
Bob surmises, as he brings the working end of the pole to eye level
and gives the nail at the end a quick tug, making sure its secure.
He then lowers the pole like a member of an honor guard,
and directs it toward a crumpled heap of newsprint.
Once pierced, he flips the mouth of the bag open and stuffs it in.
Bob moves along like a whisper, collecting aluminum cans,
wrappers, and other concerns.
A second bag juts out from his back pocket just in case.
Once around, he drops the bag in a small dumpster
at the cemetery entrance and walks home, tapping the cane
against the pavement like a sherpa.
When I was young my mother would gently walk into my room
while I slept. Her fingers would part the hair away from my
face and pull the blankets up over my shoulders, before retiring
to her own room.
~I posted this on the synergy bbs the other day..and it fell like
a rock. So I figured I would post it where it would hang around
for a while. :) I know Immortal knows the sting of having something
that you put some effort into disappear from the synergy board like
it was deleted or something. Anyway, I hope you guys like it. I'm no
Walt Whitman, but I think this one has some merit. Hope everyone is
well.
You can adjust a clock to his arrival:
10:30 AM, give or take a minute or two.
Bob is always an unbalanced sight
passing through the entrance of the cemetery:
a long wooden pole in one hand, a plastic grocery bag
in the other, and mirrored aviator sunglasses
that dominate his face.
"The key to a successful retirement is comfort," he says,
motioning to brushed-twill pants and chalk-white tennis sneakers.
The wooden perimeter that surrounds the monuments
is roughly an eigth of a mile in length:
this is the focus of Bob's patrol.
He has no friends or family here,
only the memory of past acquaintences with matching names.
"I knew a Vincenzo," he declares,
as if discovering a twenty in a pair of old slacks.
"Some people are either lazy, or they don't have any respect,"
Bob surmises, as he brings the working end of the pole to eye level
and gives the nail at the end a quick tug, making sure its secure.
He then lowers the pole like a member of an honor guard,
and directs it toward a crumpled heap of newsprint.
Once pierced, he flips the mouth of the bag open and stuffs it in.
Bob moves along like a whisper, collecting aluminum cans,
wrappers, and other concerns.
A second bag juts out from his back pocket just in case.
Once around, he drops the bag in a small dumpster
at the cemetery entrance and walks home, tapping the cane
against the pavement like a sherpa.
When I was young my mother would gently walk into my room
while I slept. Her fingers would part the hair away from my
face and pull the blankets up over my shoulders, before retiring
to her own room.
~I posted this on the synergy bbs the other day..and it fell like
a rock. So I figured I would post it where it would hang around
for a while. :) I know Immortal knows the sting of having something
that you put some effort into disappear from the synergy board like
it was deleted or something. Anyway, I hope you guys like it. I'm no
Walt Whitman, but I think this one has some merit. Hope everyone is
well.