Bill Blackshaw
He escapes his age
At eleven o'clock.
He and Jim have talking to do.
Philosophy, politics,
The last book he read.
For only the sake of argument,
For stretching out ancient neurons.
Genius but messy,
A simple blue
Pinstriped oxford shirt,
With missing buttons
And spaghetti sauce stains.
A tribute
To never ending pasta dinners.
Chaotic but nourishing.
Italian,
Just the way he likes.
He speaks in Morse code.
Difficult to grasp,
But when you listen closely,
You might just catch
The words
That will save your life.
He is Amsterdam.
Era after era
Keeps passing him by.
Old city with a young soul.
No judgment.
Just experience.
If you look into his eyes
You can see straight through
To the end of the world.
Mesmerizing but sad.
That protective glaze
From a history of pain.
He took me in
When no one else would.
He lent me his car
When I totaled my third.
He pretended not to notice
When I'd smoke
Cigarettes
In his house.
My grandpa told me
He still is not sure
If he made the right choices in life.
Live, learn, love,
And please,
He said,
Never stop reading.
by Kerry Chestnutt
November 3, 2007
(Originally written 2/2007)
Comments