Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Mr. Morris


Mr. Morris


Mr. Morris was a tenant
in my house, and a friend.
He wore the night
on his skin, a panther
copiously sprinkled with stars
draped in spider webs.
After a long day's work
he’d sit by the phone
in the kitchen
and counsel dying men
I’d never see.
When the virus spread
and independent living
was no longer an option
he wouldn’t complain, show fear
or pain, even when I’d rush him
to the emergency room.
It was in a sweat lodge with Mr. Morris
that my feathers dropped as he rose
above the cornfield like a vision. 

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