My Friend Mike

 

I still hear the leaves crunching.
It reminds me that soon
Grape vines and flowers
Will submit to tyranny
And frost.

The lazy red sun has grown fat
And hides far in the south.
There is just enough wind
To burn my cheeks brittle,
Pink and bright.

Roughly painted into the landscape,
Mike fills the bird feeder hanging
From a long, twisted branch
In an ancient and leafless
Silver Maple.

It’s striking, how fragile he is now,
Nothing separates his pale skin
From shriveled up
Tendons and bones. His hair
Is long, sick, and thin.

He wears a camouflaged jacket
From the Vietnam War.
It’s draped over him like
A cancerous
Canvas vulture.

I am hurled into painful reality.
I know that this is the last time
He will fill his feeder
With love,
In this granite moment.

Somehow, I know in my heart
This is the last time his legs
Will hold his frail body
From crashing
To the ground.

The tears break away from my eyes,
Kissed by cold autumn breeze.
I take this as shock and I weep
Sucking the wind
Deep inside.

I feel the wind pulling him away.
He has a subtle, soothing smile.
It would be OK,
His eyes confirm from
His tanned, punished face.

Eight years later, I am still here,
Helplessly watching him die,
Stuck in this granite moment.
My soul is covered in
Creeping Phlox.