Saturday, February 11, 2017

Third Poem (Collateral Damage)

(For Timothy Dewitt)

He was there.
I was not.
He doesn’t just tilt at windmills. He beats the shit out of them.

Never forget the day we encountered that guy who kept bullying me.
Tim took off his shirt and went after him.
The guy hightailed it and never bothered me again.

Never forget going to Dylan with him and his sister.
One time we even were able to exchange our seats for front row.
Going to see a legend with a legend is neither redundant nor without its bumps in the road.

Wrote me letters while he was over there.
Couldn’t say where he was, but his tall tales always were proven true later in the news.
We got drunk on that rooming house roof on Ninth Avenue and screamed Dylan lyrics like our lives depended on it because they did.

He called me Judas and it made me sad, but I learned to take things he said with a pillar of salt especially when he was drunk and playing out his very own Passion Play.
Let’s go the distance like two thieves in the night and never trespass where we’re not wanted unless we’re certain the Intel is good and there’s a Waffle House nearby.
I’ve learned knowing a real life Holden Caulfield has its advantages and disadvantages, but when you’re backed into a corner there is no one better to know because they’ll always come through for you like gangbusters no matter the risk to their own wellbeing.

Charles Cicirella

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