The Novelist

by

Paul E Sexton

Standing wrapped in a thin blanket
of white wet dirty snow, he stood
smoking a cigarette the way he usually did.
Out of the side of his mouth, with
hands, slightly unsteady, portraying
a man out of time anachronism
boyhood lost persona.
Once, after reading "A Tale of Two Cities,"
he declared an affinity for Sidney Carton, the
anti-hero who died a " far, far, better death"
for the sake of love. However, it was the
restless, smoking, late night wonderings
through dark empty Paris streets
for which he felt a familiar longing.
That’s how could be found on many a fitful
summer late night, pacing the smooth
wooden floors of our home. Always
with the cigarette, usually a glass
of whiskey, often spinning a crackly old vinyl
" Dream of The Blue Turtles," preferring,
" Moon Over Bourbon Street," slow and mournful,
even for Sting. He always seemed to be shaking
his head slightly, even when he wasn’t actually.
Not that he was sad really, simply resigned
to existing between the days.
So, as the engine whined out that whirring
followed by the clicking, it seemed entropy
and Ice had finally defeated our old Chevrolet.
He stood framed within the frosty whiteness
of the frozen windshield. A subtly imposing figure
in the long black overcoat, which seemed to
bring him a minor joy
in the few languid winter days that Texas let slip by.
Dropping the tiny cigarette remains
deliberately casually, warm
breath, smoke like in blue-gray air,
while gazing skyward he mumbled
"Fuck."
All that needed to be said, really,
on the silent journey back into the warmth.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Wallow
by: Richard Betts Jr.
from: Warrington, PA, US

To visit all of Paul E Sexton's poems, click HERE

Check out these deals at Amazon.com

...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities

To write us about this page,
contact willy@dreamagic.com (Willy Chaplin)