Poetry

George’s Blackberry Eyes

scared me
with their controlled speed.
He had not killed that many people,
having sworn off cocaine
after the middle of his nostrils
began to rot.
He knew guys in prison
didn’t want their kids to end up there.
He’d married the wife of his best friend,
who was in prison for so long.
He held court right in his living room,
removed selling territories
from offending distributors.
When he knew I read,
he brought me a ‘free’ newspaper–
“two for the price of one,” he said.
When I needed tires, he told me
one of his friends
could get them tha night.
Then I read that his justice went blind.
The police nabbed him
for his carriage of justice,
which was a brand-new murder.
I still feel guilty,
for not showing him
how green things grow,
clear water that kisses roots,
helping the hand of the sun
to lift shoots to sky.
I could have shared with him
the peace of soughing trees
in the south breeze
and the quiet country crowd of stars.
I kept all that in my throat,
my stomach, fat and ugly.
I have an exercise to do on myself.
If I see George again,
maybe at a mall,
I hope he can see essences,
those biceps of the world
that hug him all the time,
the sweetness of
his blackberry eyes.

Phil Flott

Phil Flott is a retired Catholic priest, after having been a journeyman carpenter. He was nominated for a Pushcart in the late 70's and has had about 250 poems published. Forthcoming work in Passager.

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