Gliding by, behind the overpass embankment, to the right, that same ancient gentleman, as always, sits, imagine, blue knee highs, high top boots, long scraggly beard, layers and layers of clothing and rags and protection, an icon listening to his discman, his walkman, never been close enough, to tell, think of stopping of sitting and a discussion, would we be able, think, glide by.
Back from tall pine trees dotted with no undergrowth on bayou plain, no limbs emerge at their lower reaches, as if tiny pines expanded exponentially to reach the sky, dark sky of northerly obscurity, swaying gently as the march revels in its production in its necessary ending underneath, how many years to make an absence, how many eyes averted to unmake a space, the redness of the struggle, the anthem of a victory dreamed upon by gray haired elders talking of war in Iran, take off your damn hat, don't talk right now, it's holy, our bodies said, our lips softly mouthing movement, out of breath, the pine needles make poetry on the dirt, dust, dead grass of a winter forgotten before it arrived, how can heat emerge this smoothly, zydeco rhythm, raise up and stand, ghosts of pasttime, was it, glasses, beards, some lost weight, some gained, their walking, laughing hugs, you still in that rocking chair, impassioned faces, words full of weight and import, testing testing one two three, old Spanish style arches and crumbling corrugated aluminum tire shops, a long way to go, yes, massive, miniscule rhythms of suits on Saturdays, pulling children behind for catfish and grits, kente cloth and puffed up black winter jackets, young men bent knees jeans crinkle, your jeans puffed up tucked in tall high heel blackboots, when you bend you lean, ghosts of pasttime, was it, glide by.
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