Bitter Journey Home
Chewing garlic in the evening
helps a sore throat.
Garlic will not kill a rat.
The sun kills,
shining against the eye;
it is both enemy and friend.
There is enmity between
the sun and man.
Beams dance by the window sill
and sparkle like rain
against old wood.
The old man leaves the house
to visit the grave
of his late wife.
His grizzled hair and foul breath
blows like a trumpet.
He prays to the sun god,
but receives no answer,
only a bitter taste
of resignation.
A rat crosses his path like some demon.
He throws a front kick,
then totters,
tripping on a vine
as he moves along.
The vine is a snake of green and brown,
twisted, gnarled
like a calloused palm.
Soon he must head home.
It is evening and the day is dimming
like a short wick.
The old man is dim of mind and feeble.
His limbs carry many wounds
like thorns.
Surely sleep will restore his memory.
Surely he will find his way home.
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