A Closed Eye

A closed eye, shut tight
by choice, fallen
comatose or dead,
having willed itself blind
or having shifted suddenly,
involuntarily, into
darkness.

A hand gone limp,
crossed over another like it,
resting on a chest
which may or may not 
be moving up, down,
slightly.

A body, small enough
to be overlooked if one
were to walk by in a hurry,
lying covered in dry leaves
by a main street but in a stretch
where there are few homes
and few who walk by.

How I know
this is my hometown:

I reach gingerly down
to the body and touch it,
almost tenderly, and when it
stirs and raises its head,
I look closely into the face
and say,

“Hey. Joe. Getting 
cold out here. Go home.
You need a ride or something?
I can go get the car.”

How, when this improbably
happens for the second time in 
my life, I know I have come
very far from home:

I reach into my pocket
and pull a phone from it
and call the emergency number
and stand to one side
and wait there for someone to come
and raise the body up and 
see how the person is,

and never get close enough
to see for myself, 
to touch, to feel.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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