while the ravens danced in silence
a piano sits in the middle of the room
the old man has on a black knit hat
it covers his grey grey hair
he is sitting on the piano bench
beside him is a bottle of cheap red
he keeps pulling at it
his conversation is a junkie' s scat
he skips and jumps and mumbles
when he finally lays his fingers against the black and white
there is a clutter of sound
a dark street covered in broken bottles voice
there is something like poetry
the short story is about being in the slammer
the police found him drunk and dead to the world
he was sitting cross legged on the yellow line
cars were ripping by him on the left and right
and he was kissing the wind in the middle
langhing like a banshee
and crying like a fool
when they got him to the station
there were men in blue who recognized him
they put him in a cell with a madman
the madman was eating his mattress
the old pissy hunk of grey
he is sitting at the dinner table
there has been much wine
the conversation is being recorded
for posterity
get it all down before the old junkie dies
he dominates the conversation
not with wit or wisdom
but by being loud and drunkest
no one wants to challenge him
no one wants to take away what ever it is that he has
they all sit in contemplation wondering
where is the art?
or is this man just waiting
for the ravens
Copyright © michael dennis / Ordinary Press 1982
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