Drunk And Furious.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

rereading donald makes me feel
young again.
My past arrives, sits on the porch,
and appears as a child.
The place is old smelling rosewood.
Over there are trees of oranges,
all ripe hanging but not falling.
I remember bringing Manny from our
city high school.
He did not like to pick any of those
orange. He merely liked watching them.
Took pictures instead.
He wanted to see the old house and
feel it.
Entered one of those rooms where
a mosquito net at ten o'clock in the
morning still hangs.
The window is open. Light is coming
in profusely for it was a bright day.

There Papa was still snoring. Drunk last
night as in all other nights.
There was that problem which he never
brought into the open for the family to know.

Manny did not want to go back to the old house
again. And he did not want me to be his friend
again. Perhaps it was about the old house which
smelled like rosewood.

Or perhaps it was about Papa. Drunk and furious.
I still love those orange trees. I like the old smell
of orange peelings.

And no one cares about Manny too.