peter leon

I Walk In The Ohio Atmosphere
With A Crow In My Hair

I Know It Is Definitely Spring.
My Fingers Run Slowly Across The Turning Pages of My Notebook.
An I Walk Alone.
You See The Coffee Is Always Cold For The Soldiers of The 53rd Regiment.
Except During The Sabbath...
Then There Is No Coffee.
Not With Sugar.
Not With Cream.

A Radio With A Battery Rests Upon The Breakfast Room Table.
An Old Cup Is Empty......The Cupboards Bare.
I Sit In My Underwear Gazing Into The Night.
The Stained Cup From Last Weeks Coffee.
I Rise Before The Morgantown Window.
I Stare Into A Secondhand Universe.
My Poems Are More Than Simply One Verse.
In My Hand Is A Cup of Juice From The Orchards of Fort Meyers.
The Sister City of West Virginia Back Hills Northern Lights.
I Sit Before The Window With A Crow In My Hair.
The Last Pencil In The Universe Inside The Grip of My Traveler's Hand.
And All I Can Think of Is Those Slices of No Fat American Cheese.

That And The Silent Bird....Hand Strung Mechanical Wings Still As Midnight Gravity.
No Movement....Not North Nor South.
Not East Nor West.
I Still Can't Remember What My Last Name Used To Be.
And Tightly My Hand Is Fastened Upon The Dry Coffee Cup.
Not For The Intelligent.
Not For The Poor.
Not For The Lilacs And Not For The California Mountain Riverside Juicy Sweet Blackberries.
I Am The Healer With Thick Calluses Upon Both of My Hands.
I Am The Sleeping Trash Man With Baby Soft Memories.
I Am The Last Remainder of My People And I Stare Into The Snow.
And So I Am Sitting With A Crow In My Hair.
I'm Chewing Upon The Fallen Gift From My Aging Grandfather And An Ailing Old Missing Feather.
With Horse Hoof Glue I Attach The Bird Into The Final Late Night Notebook.
Not For This Bright Morning of Now.......But Rather For My Old Father's Workbench In The Metal Fasteners of Forever!

Peter Leon