leaning against a wooden cane,
tendrils of smoke pouring from between two fingers,
the nails of each hand long and dark stained,
john.
skin a thick, leather brown,
humorous drawl with a mischievous twinkle
remaining behind brown eyes,
the boy once in awhile comes out to play
as the man, now long consumed by the madness of the mind,
stays behind. "who you talkin' to, old man?" i chirp out
as he heartily laughs in response.
john.
another lifetime ago, i'd slink below the window pane,
on a yellow school bus headed north. my unruly curls,
testament to a teenage embarrassment, visible above the
faux-leather seats as noisome classmates never failed to point out,
"there's your uncle, cara!" once upon a time, strong, virulent and forward moving.
then, came decades spent sleeping on city sidewalks.
john.
this dance, ongoing and cyclical, as endless as time itself.
"it is what it is," the singer sings, too.
john,
like love,
a four-letter word.
