Going down River Road

At noon, and the sun blows hotter than blood from a gaping wound

Sprawling into the street, four hoses spraying widely across the road

With their taps left open- I should contact the old man watering his plants,

And indeed I have done so, but alas! The old man is dead.

Now it is a few hours past noon, at about two o’clock,

Perhaps three, and the sun still burns hot,

My skin feels like I stood against an electric iron, but why would I do that?

Perhaps again, the same reason the old man decided to water his plants at noon

Under the hot sun- I just remembered his son.

So I go to look for him, and I see him sprawled across the sofa,

His arm like brackets beside his head, and his legs spread in very awkward angles;

The room is as hot as the air that now fills the room,

My head feels fuzzy, woozy, with my legs a lot like the jelly I had for no good reason.

For no good reason- I look at my hands, lifting them up slowly to meet my face

Like my eyes would fare better when close to the object seen,

There’s blood on my hands; whose blood?

 

It’s just me in the room, the door locked behind me,

With the clock reading 10:00 am.

The air’s cool, the fan whirling quietly but efficiently above my head,

And there's no body sprawled across the floor in awkward angles,

Just me, and there's blood on my hands.

Now my breath ceases, and my brain goes into hyper drive,

Thinking, remembering, trying to figure out the usual-

Where I’d been, who I’d been with, what time I’d come in-

But it’s just grey areas around the edges and one big blank in the middle.

 

Going down River Road, and I have a couple of memories playing through,

Beginnings, middles and some fuzzy bits of endings in one loop.

My hands are heavy from the heavy bags I’m carrying along-

No. It’s my feet that are heavy, the bags are tied to them as I drag along,

Or wait yet still; my whole body tied together with the bags as weights.

While in my head I’ve travelled a while down this road,

Indeed I’m just where I’ve always been, right where I started;

Time hasn’t moved either, or else I’ve wasted it quite well,

It’s still many years back.

 

And the guilt lies still in my hands, mortal offence,

Perhaps I should get a doctor; I just returned from one,

And he’s said I’m sick.

 

The old man died was poisoned, and he vomited his bloody insides.

I came in and held the old man close to me, because he was very close to me.

I woke up at ten in the morning because I slept very late,

And I found the old man dead in the room,

Then in grief I held him close to me, as he was very close to me.

I died, and he came into the room and held me close to him,

Getting my blood on his hands; we were very close indeed.

 

We had taken a walk down River Road, old man and young man,

And we spoke about a great many things.

Clearly he knew a lot for his age, as I knew a lot for mine.

We differed on many grounds, yet were united on many,

Two coming quickly to mind-

We were both tied full bodied, with heavy bags as weights,

And we were both at our beginnings.

We each looked at the other, smiling, knowledge passing between us in silence,

Our regrets etched clearly on our faces, but wouldn’t speak.

Like a solemn vow, each promised himself silence, his secrets to his death.

But I knew his, as he knew mine; one could say we were one and the same.

But perhaps we were.

 

And on we went down River Road, stuck at our beginnings, tied full bodied

With heavy bags as weights, squinting beneath the noontime sun.

All we could say, in that same silence, was how sorry we were.

We murdered ourselves; blood on our hands,

We murdered ourselves in secret; alone with the door locked,

We murdered ourselves when we were young; 10:00 am,

But we would both die when we got old,

When the sun was high and life was bright and early,

And it was odd for the hoses to be left gushing with the house owner inside.

 

We got home after our walk down River Road,

The evening setting quite beautifully on our eyes.

The air was cool again, the fan whirling quietly above our heads.

The young man had grown old, and I was still an old man,

You could say I waited for him to catch up.

Now we could both go to sleep, two contented old men

With blood from our murders on our hands, the sun fast giving way to the night sky,

Hoses still gushing in the streets.

Reviews

[ReneeJ]

WOW, what is going on in your head, it is so different in there. This was a superb read! I am so happy I stopped by. I love how it reads like a story in a poetry form. There is so much happening, but it never gets confusing. You write in such a way that the reader can't help but feel like they are right there watching. Beautiful piece!

[Opeyemi Jide-Ojo]

Thank you Renee... In my head is another world entirely; abstracts with little bits of reality. Thanks...

[Coyote Poetry]

Powerful story my friend. Had the feel of Mark Twain storytelling skill and Jack London tale of real life and struggle.
"We murdered ourselves; blood on our hands,
We murdered ourselves in secret; alone with the door locked,
We murdered ourselves when we were young; 10:00 am,
But we would both die when we got old,
When the sun was high and life was bright and early,
And it was odd for the hoses to be left gushing with the house owner inside."
It is sad we must become old too soon. Learn too much and must carry a heavy weight. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry and story.
Coyote

[Opeyemi Jide-Ojo]

Twain and London?! I'll have to go look them up. Thanks Coyote. Indeed, there's so much to learn with this short life...

[Coyote Poetry]

We learn all the time. The good part of being alive.