1118. THE HAWK FLIES HERE

THE HAWK FLIES HERE
Like driving an old man home, like a
tired old pencil, like grieving for something
that was : any of these things sums up
my feelings for being. Listless and aimless,
the shoulder will no longer carry the bag.
-
I want for nothing. The big guy in the
parking lot, looking for a signature,
an autograph, a what-have-you, what
he gets instead is a death-warrant
initialed in blood. Yes, yes, the hawk flies.
-
Smoke the last cigarette? Dog it again,
was that you? Smoke curling around your
face, but how many remember those days?
The old empty loft and the filthy, cold
warehouse where we both stood long
hours figuring out what to do and then
how to do it. You welding the sky with
your torch, while I waited. Expectations?
Never very much or, anyway, nothing
so disappointing enough to recall.
-
And then, it was over. Poof!
The Hawk flew, the guitar man
put his stuff down and went home,
the rest of the guys, lame as ever,
dispensed their drivel and lingered.
You? Without much sense, you stayed
around. Still there, I hear, still there.