Page 18 - Vol.VI#5

9
Thank the Wind Alive
I tell stories to nothing but the walls,
and the photographs are floating away.
The old ones said that three’s a crowd,
and I got used to thinking that way,
figured there was a bad vein inside me, silent kid just observing at Thanksgiving, bewildered and climbing onto the bus, heading into serious enemy territory,
ghetto with violent eyes in dirt yards.
It’s tough to mythologize basement pipes
in gym class or the last five minutes we kept silent to get out and the afternoon gauntlet, home safe at last with the best gods I knew coming through the glow of a television set.
Douglas Cole