alfie lee writing

 
Gilbert

He sold vacuum cleaners, sold us ours,
top of the line at a steep discount.
When my mother offered to pay,
he brushed her off with a wave,

"C'mon, sis!" claiming it was overstock.
I think of him younger, behind his drums,
long hair, bell-bottoms, big specs, hard rock.
Now and then he'd disappear, come back

months, a year, with his hair shone off.
But he pulled himself together that last time,
got straight, met a girl, got married,
bought a nice place, scanned the ads, was doing good.

How he busted the lock and window
latch to brace the 14th storey high
no one could explain. They said he
didn't have a scratch on him. Miraculous

was what it was. He was my mother's
favourite. We sat five nights folding gold,
made small talk, nodding off. The last morning
we gathered anxious round the unsteady moth.




                                                               
home           new           poems           stories           index           about           stuff           speak           share on facebook



for art by alfie go to alfieleeart.com
for music by alfie go to alfieleemusic.com
for graphic designs by alfie go to alfieleedesign.com

all writing, artwork & music on this site
copyright of alfie lee
& may not be reproduced in any form without express consent

Powered by Blogger