For a Homeless Man's Mother (who is gone but not forgotten.)

thank you for telling us your story.

He began life still-born and red-faced,

at birth, his air was replaced with caustic liquid

but he didn’t drown.

He had a long-winded cry

that woke the neighbors two floors down,

and he started young to walk,

so his mother taught him young to dance.

She showed him video tapes of the greats,

and tugged on his little feet like a friendly puppeteer.

Soon, he was a Lightning Streak 

who tore up dance shoes fast

and soared past creaky door frames

like Gene Kelly’s mentee,

or Michael Jackson’s tiny shadow.

His sock-footed dancing on the carpet

made a static cling that drew her near,

despite the broken beer glass here and there

smashed by feet like Fred Astaire’s.

She said he danced like a great burning sunrise,

and that’s why her eyes sometimes leaked 

when she stared at him too long.

She stared too long

every chance she got.

But soon, like every good sun does,

he supernova’d into shiny shards

that cut deep.

She caught a nasty sliver

when she tried to hold him close,

but his starry toes 

pointed him due north

and he danced right out the front door.

His sock-foot static sent a shock

up her spine 

and made her black afro gray

in the space of a tap-shoe crack.

Her little Lightning Streak

struck her back, 

like lightning does,

then he shot off bright in search

of meteoric rises.

He mistook a needle for an asteroid belt,

swiped and missed at endless comet tails,

and finally floated out into empty space.

He realized his failures truly

two years later in a liquor store,

Because he was born red-faced,

his air replaced with caustic liquid,

and here he was once more.

And the phone rang.

And the phone rang.

And it was his old babysitter

who found his mother sitting in her well-worn chair,

her dead eyes 

stared right through the door

in hope that he’d come through and dance some more.

His phone and knees dropped to hard floor.

That was six years ago,

but he’s still around here.

At night he rants

to new freshmen, booze-soaked and antsy,

‘bout how he’s a great breakdancer 

‘bout how his old lady croaked

from the brain cancer.

You can find him 

where night rests,

on benches or back alleys

and he’ll talk your ear off 

if you lend it to him.

He’s walking round right now,

(if it’s morning he’s just sitting,)

and he’ll tell you he’s a breakdancer

but “broken dancer” is more fitting.

And like a broken record, he repeats his tale

and tells the kids to love their mothers.

Most don’t listen, but some do,

and for them that do, he dances.

And his feet burn like an angry sunrise.

Reviews

[Sydney]

This has a nice flow.. I am guessing this is the result of a real life person / experience?

[Anthony J]

thanks! and yeah its based on a story told to some friends and I in berkeley.

[Sydney]

I figured.. It's sad, but a good read for sure