That One Man
I want to be with the man
who loved me for being whole,
a free spirit flung
from the top of a mountain like last winters white out blizzard.
The man sits drunk in his living room,
paralyzed in disbelief
that his mother last sat on that black leather couch,
before I came and his spirit told him that he knew my soul,
he was a casual friend
of that unbending security guard that held watch over my
taped together heart,
its secrets exposed
after his third bottle of homemade red wine,
that dribbled down his throat like a miniature river
of blood
coating a liver that sat like a putrid sponge inside him.
Praying
that he would depart too numb for pain.
And we slept
like shadows of the children we were long ago,
in the sweat of New Jersey's choking midsummer,
our souls sliding down that slope together,
on a red wooden sled,
innocence lost,
and our last lifetime clear as ice.
Copyright © Kathryn Sweeney | Year Posted 2018
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