Wisteria on 4^th Street

Old Charlie’s on the street again,

can’t stand the “home” on 4^th Street

even with the wisteria draped near his window,

even with Claude, his room mate,

who never mumbles through his pain,

even with Evelyn, the nurse,

with dark, gypsy eyes.

It was the clean white hallways

smelling of impending death

and cleaning liquids,

and Berthold, the lunatic,

who tried hard to scream out

the National Anthem…..

they drove him onto the street again.

There’s a kind of warmth

to the cold tunnel beneath the freeway,

where Charley can pee wherever he wishes

and stare at a dandelion struggling

to survive without water or love,

and watch the newly debauched

with purple hair and black lipstick

conniving with dealers and pimps

to make the next moment forgettable  

and memorable at the same time.

Old Charley knows it can’t be done.

He looks at his hands, seventy years

of toil and trouble written in fine lines,

undecipherable, but with a kind of beauty,

each line, a month or year……

and yes, he can recall them all,

perhaps in twisted alignment

so that they dance like an old movie.

He remembers “falling from grace”

and all that avalanche of misery,

but he also remembers blue flowers

on the porch of his grandmothers house,

and robins, and the first breaths of spring

and cutting himself and seeing his blood

for the first time, and feeling sad

that blood leaks so easily,

rather, as found out later,

like goodness leaking from bums,

or badness leaking from bums,

or time leaking from a bright new day,

or lies leaking from preachers,

and he smiles with tears in he eyes,

and wanders back,

to the home on 4^th Street….

to Claude, and the wisteria,

and the dark eyed nurse,

and Berthold’s screaming National Anthem.