Gilead
Gilead
On their walls hung
thin paper wrapped in glass
and wood. Each said
"I am a professional, I care,"
as they sketched clouds
rolling to the horizon.
The jagged twist of your car
said you were lost in pain.
The disconnected memories
left your story incomplete.
"I remember balmy summer
afternoons. The sound of thunder
from my bat, the warm skin of my glove.
Missing my father. And cookies.
Cookies that absorbed the sweat and blood
and dirt. Cookies that sat for hours and
still were sweet, that made me dance
with bat and glove..."
They said you could be cured
with a prescription of love
and a box of cookies.
They sent you out,
down that road
with its fog
of dust
knowing you would return
with nothing. Shivering.
There would be no cure.
No salve to ease the ache
of your vacuum. No Balm.
Chapped lips. A dry tongue.
Clods of hair between your
fingers.
These are your memories.
based around an article I read about Kenneth Marcady and Kay Stokes (you can find it online)
On their walls hung
thin paper wrapped in glass
and wood. Each said
"I am a professional, I care,"
as they sketched clouds
rolling to the horizon.
The jagged twist of your car
said you were lost in pain.
The disconnected memories
left your story incomplete.
"I remember balmy summer
afternoons. The sound of thunder
from my bat, the warm skin of my glove.
Missing my father. And cookies.
Cookies that absorbed the sweat and blood
and dirt. Cookies that sat for hours and
still were sweet, that made me dance
with bat and glove..."
They said you could be cured
with a prescription of love
and a box of cookies.
They sent you out,
down that road
with its fog
of dust
knowing you would return
with nothing. Shivering.
There would be no cure.
No salve to ease the ache
of your vacuum. No Balm.
Chapped lips. A dry tongue.
Clods of hair between your
fingers.
These are your memories.
based around an article I read about Kenneth Marcady and Kay Stokes (you can find it online)