Thanks for the nomination Bernie.
Dale Patterson
dalepatterson2666@gmail.com
my poem is original, unpublished and not represented in current IBPC
The Direction I Walk in the Morning
My left leg is longer than the right,
orthopedic shoes keep me level.
I meet an old friend
at Fourth Street Cafe,
step with a burled maple cane.
Bill’s Viet Nam ball cap, brightly
embroidered,101st Airborne,
tilts on his head.
We sit near the coat rack.
Soiled dishes rattle the well
of a stainless steel pushcart.
A damp kitchen rag, used
to wipe tables
and red vinyl benches,
drapes on its handle.
A young Irish girl,
who call us her boys, pours water
and places our flatware
on white paper mats.
Bill pushes his fork to the side,
covers my hand with thin fragile fingers.
I feel the cut stone on his Masonic ring,
the way it fits loose in the bezel.
He speaks a low gospel,
a voice with a settling gloom,
my wife wants to die.
The wall mounted fan
grinds back-and-forth spraying aromas,
bacon and eggs,
onions and peppers,
simmering coffee.
And what do I say
when lips are sewn closed
and frail touch exhumes jealous anger?
An old film chatters in my mind,
I have never been bold with a women,
never been married?
Bill releases my hand.
My foot has gone numb
in my damn 4F boot.
