19 May 2016
Tucker sits on his porch.
Every Thursday night he eats a spanish hamburger
and drinks an old fashioned, sweet.
His wife is dead two years.
Cells grew that shouldn't;
made her as thin as a Horicon Marsh reed.
Goddamn the more that makes you less.
There's a battery powered candle on her gravestone -
changes colors every few seconds.
The baby stared at it as we made our evening rounds in the cemetery tonight.
But he did fall asleep.
Tucker's yard has the most wild violets. Damn near
more violets than grass.
You walk on that, you mow that,
it don't matter. They don't crush or chop much.
The purple will still droop.
Some sort of poor king's honor.
We nod to each other, Tucker and me.
I look down, for sake of deference,
stare at the space between us.
What small beauty as the sun goes thin.
Right there, in that weave of grass and little scalloped leaves.
I look up.
Tucker is looking at me.
Neither of us smiles.
We trade in our eyes
a recognition of glory.