Virus V

Dawn's sharp edge. The next night seems far away. 

Early rain falls into a cold November drizzle. 

 

Snow had fallen freely in the park. A man in a rust coloured cap had slept. 

 

A homeless virus took away his soul. He waits with other soulless men, who remember only half of what they lived. 

The line moves slowly. A morning angel serves them coffee and bread.

The windows look like they are crying. The bricks sound as if they are breathing sick air. Heavy and labouring in sorrow. The nothing man feels warm. A fever set up in his skin days ago. His lungs cough like the bricks' sick air. The memory is nearly gone. 

 

The delirium before the dying? 

........The cold before the cure?

The line of nothing men move slowly. The angel in the distance pours coffee and hands out warm bread. The man can't recall her distant face. Just as he can't remember his fiancee's name.

But the sensation comes, with each slow step. Like a saxophone solo playing by Coltrane. Like an Alabama dirge. The crescent moon in the sky. 

 

He sees her long flowing hair tied by a white mask. 

 

A memory comes back. 

She wanted to be a nurse, help the homeless. Forgotten men who barely knew their name. Before the disease came. It was Coltrane. 

 

He can hear the music along the crying windows. Hear it past the breathing  bricks.

In the late fall when snow turns to rain. Is it her? He waits in line. Is the fever breaking? Is he starting to feel alright? Soon he will sip coffee, feel warm bread. Maybe he'll know her name.

Virus IV

A man who didn't know his name waited in line

The rain soaked his rust coloured cap. Ran along his old overcoat

When the rain became a drizzle he still felt weakness in his veins

Soon the line would move slowly, 

when the church would feed morning coffee and bread to the viral young

Afflicted by a mystery disease that had come with the summer sun

A fever that never runs down, a cough that pains the lungs

Some had died, 

None could recall their names

Only the sense, the outline of a story that was

The nothing man tried to remember her name

He was to marry her, 

On his birthday she gave him a cap, the autumn colour matched his coat

It kept him warm on homeless nights

Kept him dry from the rain

Slowly the line began to move

Men coughed and dragged their feet, none could remember

An empty bus came

The team wore masks and lifted the sidewalk dying and dead onto the empty seats

Some lain on the floor

He sensed the summer garden, when they were together, when he asked her for her hand

Slowly the line began to move, drizzle came from the rain

The summer garden,  

He coughed, felt weakness

He saw in the distance a young woman in kindness give coffee and bread to nothing men

He wanted to see her face, he wanted to know her name

The man dreamed of the summer garden where he felt oneness and touched nature's hand

 

 

Virus III

When streaks of snow changed into a cold morning rain, a rust coloured cap was pulled over virus eyes. An old grey overcoat was pulled high against fevered skin.

A man who once knew his name lifted himself from the park bench where he had slept. In his sickness he walked unsteadily through drowning leaves.

 

Between the trance and the living

........Between the delirium and the dead 

An infection had swept the land. Had stolen the minds of the young. The incompleteness of memory. Only the sense of what was. The symptom of nothingness. The nothing man.

He stood at the edge of the park and waited till the traffic passed. A cough came to his throat as he walked across the street and wove like time through the wandering men. Among the afflicted he had joined the mutterers: "What is my name? What is my name?" Over and over they said.

 

The man took a pair of dice from his pocket and turned them inside his hands. He stumbled but steadied his feet. He had dropped the Atlantic City dice. They rolled along a puddle and drew snake eyes. He left them behind. The nothing man.

He waited in a sweaty line. Coughing men, waiting for coffee and bread. Waiting for the snakes in rainy stew. Waiting for threaded memories of time.

 

 

Virus II

Against a November cold, a man awoke on fire

Beads of disease rolled down his face like dice

Along his neck the perspiration fell beneath the woolen coat he pulled up high 

On the park bench he slept against the streaks of snow

He dreamed of summer trees

A rainbow after a July rain

Then the bracing wind

Against his burning

His temperature rose

He shivered and awoke

The chills came and went, 

Then they came and accompanied the night

He tried to cover his face

But his wool coat was too thin

His hands too frail 

Once he knew his name

Now he knew nothing was forever

Not the coldness in his bones

Not the heat of his virus skin

Nothing remains in the end

Not an autumn moon 

Not a jarring wind

Someday it all ends

Someday it all ends

The winter becomes the spring

The spring becomes the willow of trees

In time the fever mends

He tried to carve a forgotten name in the halo of snow 

His rust coloured cap fell to the ground

And in a dream he slept beneath a fallen summer rain

 

 

Virus

Two cold donuts. Coffee's wayward steam. 

A rust coloured cap sits atop uncut hair. A thick grey overcoat is pulled up high along its collar.

With bare fingers the man sips his coffee. He takes a small bite from a glazed donut.

It is just past evening.

A first frost covers fallen gold and red leaves. They shimmer under the street lights. Streaks of snow land on the man’s eyes, and melt in his coffee. He belongs on the wood bench. As forgotten as an empty park.

He once knew his name. But now he doesn’t remember much. Except for a trip to Atlantic City.

A virus came and stole half of his memory. Just as it robbed others.

He sensed what his life once was. He knew he had an apartment not so long ago. A job. Friends. A young girl who he would marry—start their lives together.

But the virus swept through the country. It crippled the minds of the young.

So many left to wander.

They lived in a numbed insanity.

They could not remember names.

They could only remember the outlines of events.

Like his trip to Atlantic City.

He and his buddies tossed dice at Taj Mahal. They won so much. More than all they’d ever been paid. That night they decided to get laid.

They woke up groggy eyed. The silent girls had grifted more stole' money than they’d ever seen.

The black cops laughed: “You white boys so dumb. Those girls were too hot for you. You should of known you being played. You’ll never forget Atlantic City.”

The man couldn’t remember, but he sensed his winnings. He sensed what he lost.

He drank the last of the coffee. Bit the last of the donut. The snow fell about his feet. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his fiancee’s name.

But he couldn’t. Just the dice in Atlantic City.