to you, my old man

You, there, alone in your dark escape
Pulled too many a string.
You, there, behind the thickness of your Vaseline eyes
In the deafness of your mind.

Waiting.

No
Going
Back.

“You didn’t hear? I’m so sorry.”
But I did.
My ear’d been on you,
I was onto you.
There.

To see you once more.
You, there, but not at all.

A white-washed wall, too clean
And you, there, just down the hall
Swaddled in a baptismal cloth
Keeping you from the chill, but not from cold
Reality.

I, here, cast a gaze at you.
My prideful one
My moxied marauder
My life’s lesson
Of how not to live.

Heart pounds and palms ache
To touch you
(sonofabitch).

You, there
Split my mind with your silence
And I, here, don’t seem to mind.

The first thing that hits you when you walk into Ministry With Community is the smell. It’s heavy and thick and you can nearly chew it after you fling open the heavy, oily doors. There’s a pow-wow of African American men, all in their fifties, in a sunfilled room near the front of the building, near the clothes washing and drying machines clothes are washed for free. They’re talking about fishing in a polluted, trash strewn stream that snakes through the downtown. They don’t catch much there, they say, except for a discarded crutch or the plastic rings that hold six packs of beer together. So they usually pack up their tackle and lie under a tree near the stream and stare at the sky. Walking toward the back of Ministry, there is a room filled with people waiting to use the three telephones available. Toothless people dial numbers written on ratty, torn shreds of paper. Their voices hiss off their gums and you can scarcely make out what they are saying but they sound adamant about everything. There is immediacy in their speech, like they are making investment deals or negotiating a land contract. They lean on the walls and look like they are sinking into the floor. In the building’s rear, near the kitchen and cafeteria – now-locked with a heavy chain and a few intimidating pad locks – the homeless sit on plastic patio furniture around round formica tables. An old, nearly bald woman leafs through an old issue of “Home Magazine,” looking intently at each page, like she is considering a big remodel of her mud room or looking to add some new appliances to her kitchen, the kind with the shiny aluminum facades that make guests ask questions and long for the same convenience and efficiency. A man with a crisp white t-shirt tucked into his beltless black jeans sits in a cubby hole on the side of the room. He’s resting his head on his arms, perched on another chair in front of him. His feet are bobbing up and down like they’re punching out Morse code. I wonder what the message might be. Next to him is a middle aged woman with long blond hair that looks to have the consistency of straw. She’s staring at the wall, with a look on her face that is confused and frightening. I’m scared of her. Her eyes are large and opened wide and she looks at me, emotionless. Her skin is ashen and puffy looking, the kind of skin that somehow coats the body of someone on heavy medications. Her nails are long and yellow and they are attached to fingers that clutch hard on a big purse with dark colored flowers on it. It looks to be brand new. For a moment, she seems to be waiting to go somewhere, and she’s getting anxious because her ride isn’t here yet. She’s not going anywhere, but I bet she thinks she is. Walking outside. A thousand generic cigarette butts litter the parking lot like dead insects. The benches out front are full of people, some with large stomachs or distended livers. They wear oversized t-shirts with the names of Ivy League colleges on them, or some Looney Tunes character or a verse from the Bible. They greet each other with handshakes, nods and swear words. “Don’t fuck with me, bitch,” says a woman to her bench mate. She’s being nice. I walk through a cloud of generic cigarette smoke as I head to my car and it smells like burning grass.