O'Ryan

I've made my way home in the dark more often of late,
Slipping from my car,
And making my stealthy way through the front door.
I'll often regard the sky
With the casual observer's interest,
And find O'Ryan's belt,
Slung low around his waist.

He is the one,
The one people mos misinterpreted.
He has let the times change him,
A burning pin prick in his hand.

I always find him at night,
Leaning against the wall of some rusty red brick building,
Smoking a cigarette.
We know each other from highschool,
We saw each other in the halls.
I covered for him once,
And saved him some dirt,
So now we exchange nods.
Admitting to awkward recognition,
His grimy hands throw away the stub.
The sparks shine like starts where it hits the sidewalk.
He'll keep smoking,
And i'll know where to find him
If I find that I ever need one.

Minds and Ballistics

I have the illusion that I know my little world.
May be that's why I call it mine.
And I only get scared when our orbits cross.

Your reference to Juan Ramón Jiménez,
Then Paul Valéry, caught me off guard
And our perspective earths collided.

You left me wanting to know more,
To recite verse to myself
As I waste away the sand in the hour-glass of my shift.
May be I will subscribe to the article of the day.
But no, the click clack of that process does not suit demeanor  at the moment.
Better wait, and this too shall pass.


-Inspired by Luke Adams click here and Billy Collins