haiku - Sept. 2, 2022
- Gary Hunter
- Sep 1, 2022
- 1 min read
still holding a pen?
poetry is cripple-proof
no retiring here
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See Allfor twenty years, I stop to chat nearly every day as he sweeps his sidewalk laughter alternates with juicy bits of street news, the weather, his disappointing sunflowers a feral cat he feeds slink
I pass a picture window my back bent, like a bow, waiting to be strung or perhaps a fishing rod with a big one pulling on the hook didn’t your mother ever yell Don’t hunch, stand up straight!
on the roof we talk solar he, with laugh large and soft like a morning sun and eyes like the dusty glint off glass gentle, not harsh ten minutes later we’re ten pages into the open book of his lif
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