He walked, a stick, both lean and tall,
…The streets, both night and day;
Disturbed by demons, not by tasks,
…That wouldn’t go away.
He never leaned upon a stick
…Like some men do to rest.
He never slowed, as if pursued,
…And by a past possessed.
The only stops I saw him make,
…To light a stick to smoke,
Were stops that fin’lly stopped him cold,
…When cancer killed the bloke.
His treatment was both stick and shock,
…The needle and the zap;
As if they knew not where to go,
…As if they’d lost the map.
He told me often of his past;
…The doctors made it stick
By talking, talking of his woes,
…As if that’d do the trick.
My idea was much different,
…To place a stick before,
A future stake, a goal to reach,
…And past be nevermore.
But like the 45’s we had,
…And all the 33’s,
The records scratched, they jerk and stick,
…Repeating in a freeze.
He haunted haunts, since haunted by
…A past that came to stay.
He walked, a stick, both lean and tall,
…The streets, both night and day.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.
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