High
Pants and Roses
I
found him one day bent at the
waist
laying in the rose bed on the
corner
and I thought he was dead
his
pants rode high almost to his
chest
and his Velcro sneakers were
undone,
his glasses sideways on his
face.
He had to be eighty and I
thought
he had a heart attack so I
called
911 and when the EMT’s
arrived,
they laughed, they knew
him,
they knew he was drunk. I
saw
him the next day smoking a
cheap
cigar on a bench in the park
and
asked how he was, he said life
sucks
that his wife died a year back
and he
had no one, that he drank
every
day in the hope he would not
wake
up the next, but he always did
He
stood, headed to the bar to give
it
another try.
Hunting
As
dusk settles in, a conspiracy of sooty
ravens
fly overhead, cat birds and sparrows
disappear
quietly into the fall foliage of bushes
and
evergreens, warrens of rabbits hide in
burrow,
squirrels shake in tree top drey.
Pairs
of ravens glide atop fence lines, dogs
are
brought inside. As darkness falls, full
moon
lights the sky, ghastly echoing croaks
fill
the neighborhood as they feast on a meal.
An
eerie quiet descends as the conspiracy
stretches
across the sky on relaxed flowing
wingbeats
back-lit by the moon.
G. Emil
Reutter is a writer of stories and poems. Nine collections of his poetry and
fiction have been published. He can be found at: https://gereutter.wordpress.com/about/
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