Dry Leaves

Another one may have 'left the building'. 'The lights' were here, the sirens. They are all dry leaves in this place, ready to fall. They look at me. They come to me. They are 'speechless'. But, like gramophones of yesteryear, I crank them up and smile. They talk a lot, but they got 'one thing' on their mind, really, like a big white elephant, their time...to die.

They don't want to go. I could cry. But, I don't, because they need me to say...'it will be alright'. It 'will' be alright, but a man or a woman, is no different than a little child, mystified...and very much afraid. I was here, waiting 'for my ride'. Unsuspecting...I found them. A whole 'RV Park' of souls, in the wrinkled skins of little old ladies and gentlemen, 'braving it out'...but not really, hoping the good lord sent someone.

Is it me? I don't know. Am I a pretender to this throne? I don't know. I'm not a youngster either, but I'm like a son to these old mothers and fathers. They banter. They beat about 'the old times', kids grown up and gone away, wives and husbands passed. Mostly, I just 'shut up' and listen. They like it that way. I don't think anyone, ever really listened.

They let me 'play my stuff', my new age stuff. They let me 'light my incense up'. They think, I'm a 'pretty strange bird'. Perhaps, just strange enough...to be of use to them, in their current 'predicament'. There's money here. There's poverty...there's pride and all the rest, aside...they remind me of people, I very much want to love. That's likely, what they need the most.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: dry autumn leaves, google pic