There are days when I
like my blue-eyed boy
Mr. Death close
As a habit is
like the last drag of a bitter
cigarette left to dissipate
In the bottom of an ash barrel.
Fifty-eight years of days
seems short if you are ninety
I however this day
feel ready to go
like a hawk down on a prey
Like a snow white goose
heading south for warmer
climes.
Life has lost its sense
of manners now:
no please or thank-you
Just out of my way,
it's your fault. Modern folks
with the manners of stumped legs;
Missing hands. Hello's
are dead things now
like passing cars on freeways.
There is a wreck
on Highway 35
a death knell ringing
At Holy Cross Church. How
do you like your blue eyed boy
Mr. Death? Innocence
Portrayed this day
is the white snow of Christmas
and the last fading note
Of the locomotive train whistle
that has just passed by
on the way to the refinery.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
write a sumbit about the blue eyed boy