I sat across from him
a decrepit old man breathing
into lungs of sawdust and glass.
I slowly slide over some tea
his hand shakes as he reaches for it ,
How did you do it? – I asked
“Well it may get dark
and there may be pain
but air tastes sweetest
right before the rain”
His face had these lines
these deep trenches. Like each
memory, was dragged across his face.
But the sea of lines
parted when he smiled.
“don’t you dare give in
these times won’t stay
my boy this sky,
will shortly rain”
His papery hand reached out
to grab my hand.
He squeezed with all his might.
I stood from my chair,
I kissed his forehead,
then got up to leave.
Of Poems and Places 