Sunday, November 23, 2008

Poem

JERRY

Jerry lived in a trailer park,
in an eight-wide with cigarette smoke
baked into the walls by hot summers.

He was ex-army and had never
been to war. After he got cancer in his lungs,
he sometimes ate lunch at our house.

Jerry would laugh like everybody else
at a joke somebody had made.
He still smoked, and did not seem sad at all.

But at night he came to our steps, crying.
He did not see darkness as the limitless world
the soul enters at death.
For him it was a void, a swallowing.

4 comments:

emmapeelDallas said...

Theresa,

This is beautiful

Judi

ggw07 said...

This seems like the beginning of a story- would love to hesr more abput Jerry and his world.
Grretchen

ggw07 said...

"Jerry lived in a trailer park,
in an eight-wide with cigarette smoke
baked into the walls by hot summers."
Absolutely fantastic.
You're on a roll. Go for broke.
Gretchen

Erin said...

I love this, especially the last lines.

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"I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?. . ." --Conrad Aiken

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