About My Troubled Pal, Danielle Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

So he lives rather blandly,
In a house of 5 entities,
Including himself, that is
If he recounts himself from all the tragedies
And he said, “Where are you Windsor? ”
As if to say, “You are not by the door, aren’t you? ”
But then his voice never reached the front porch
To tell me that the skies are red and not blue.

There were merely 4 humans
Inside the house; the denizens
Were creatures that sleep on beds,
4 humans of course,1 livid creature
The cicada, the arachnid, no?
A dog, a cat? I refused,
He is human, but not so much of a human
He was 19 and I am a child
He was uncouth, I am mild
And temperate with my judgment,
He filled his glass with a predicament
“What happened to you? ” I asked Danielle,
The searing in his eyes were not much to look at,
And I can really tell that he is troubled, my dear chum Danielle,
What trouble lies behind his eyes, I can’t really tell.

His stomach was aching and he demanded a medicine,
From the tray, from the cabinet, from the bosom of a cabaret
His mouth stank of bourbon, my mouth reeked of saliva
I asked him, “What is wrong, Danielle? ”
He said, “My stomach is aching Windsor.”
He said my name with an air of winter,
I gave him a pat on the small of his back,
It felt as if his back were to smolder
From the insides, so I asked him, with a frugal disdain
“What is really wrong? ” He as deadpanning,
“I speak a language that none can comprehend.” He said,
And I don’t know what it was, but I can understand him
Pretty well, and so it confused me and compelled me to say,
“You are way over your head, Danielle.”
But then I realized that he spoke of something cold,
And his eyes were filthy and bold,
That in every word he said through his yellow teeth,
A jaundiced hope lashed out and relished from
The insides of his nose and sinuses and made them tender

“What language are you speaking of? ” I inquired,
He lit a cigarette and a gorging mist of tar expired
And melded with the air, his rustic appearance was sartorial
And the garish flamboyance in his troubles were fuming,
“I speak a language of –“ he paused, unyieldingly
And I was swoon over by his quizzical face,
He took deeper drags and shallow respirations,
His face was drawing in, his reason far-fetched
“What’s your problem, what troubles you friend? ”
I asked him with sincerity, but sometimes sincerity
Begets nothing but cold wind underneath the trees and satin sheathes
And so he said, “I said I speak a language none could comprehend, ”
And so I gave up on him and headed home,
And prattled about him with my younger brother,
My younger brother grunted in discontent and said,
“That Danielle is way out of his head.”
And I agreed with him.

When I was about to sleep,
Tossing and turning and tousling the pillows,
I remembered Danielle’s sly face
His misdemeanor in silence,
His tenacity in his troubles,
And then I realized that I understood him,
And that is why I gave up on him,
He spoke of hope,
Where everything seemed to fall apart
Behind the lavatory, behind the wheel
Behind his ears, behind my back
And so, I called him and said,
“Danielle, I know what’s going on in your head? ”
Danielle had said bashfully, “Yeah, what is it then? ”
“You always wake up on the wrong side of the bed.”
Danielle said, now annoyed, “That is not a language, ”
And I said, “That is not a trouble either.”
He laughed at me and hung up, that poor Danielle
He was lost, I could really tell,
Until I looked at the mirror and felt so swell.