A Stick Poem by Dennis Lange

He walked, a stick, both lean and tall
The streets, both night and day,
Disturbed by demons, not by tasks,
That wouldn't go away.

He never leaned upon a stick
Like some men do to rest.
He never slowed, as if pursued,
And by a past possessed.

The only stops I saw him make,
To light a stick to smoke,
Were stops that fin'lly stopped him cold
When cancer killed the bloke.

His treatment was both stick and shock,
The needle and the zap,
As if they knew not where to go,
As if they'd lost the map.

He told me often of his past;
The doctors made it stick
By talking, talking of his woes,
As if that'd do the trick.

My idea was much different,
To place a stick before,
A future stake, a goal to reach,
And past be nevermore.

But like the 45's we had,
And all the 33's,
The records scratched, they jerk and stick,
Repeating in a freeze.

He haunted haunts, since haunted by
A past that came to stay.
He walked, a stick, both lean and tall,
The streets, both night and day.