Walt Whitman For My Birthday

.8:00 pm

The wind here is moving trees and
bushes like fingers brushing through hair
the beer in my bag is still cold and
it is dark and it is quiet and I am
hearing myself whisper these words
my thoughts are holding my hand and
they too are like fingers through hair
catching on silly knots and tangles and
gliding smooth the rest of the way
now raindrops are searching me out
i decide not to hide and they find me
clouds above are sending down tears and
kisses that touch this page and the wind
pulls an ember off my cigarette that looks
like a little shooting star right in front
of me and I make a wish - it comes true.

I have found this garden and yes it is
fanatic -as only my eyes and ears would
perceive. Rocks and flowers and palms
and mesquite and dust. I can only hear
the wind and the train and the raindrops
falling on this page. Lightning lights this
word up. My ball point pen is a rocket to
outer space.

Now the thunder begins its argument and I just
listen - I'm not going to disagree. It bellows
out a few belligerent words and then stops to
think about it Lightning flashes again to announce
the thunder has something to say. Sirens doppler by
telling me that someone is in pain and I feel
lucky.

Two days ago, I got Walt Whitman for my
birthday. He was on a bottom shelf and I
pulled him out and looked at him. I took him
to the park and sat and listened to what he had to say.
He told me about a night during the Civil War
in the nation's capitol he watched Lincoln
ride home alone on horseback. He saw the
weight and the worry. He told me that
Lincoln's head was bent down in deep sorrow
and contemplation. I believe that I saw
what he was remembering - this Whitman guy
I saw the shadows from the moon and the street lamps
as they painted silhouettes of tree branches on
Lincoln's shoulder. I heard the clop clop of
the horse's hooves navigating the District of Columbia.
And I even think I heard the man sigh.