I bumped inthrough your ghost
into an old familiar face
off Pitt Street yesterday.

From the cabinet beside your bed
you handed me a box
of Kleenex tissues and his twenties.

I followed him into the street;
he turned toward the Rocks
and kept his head down.

I knew exactly how he felt.
I’ve been in shoes like his.
I’ve been around.

I walked awhile beside him;
tried to tell him not to sweat it.
He didn’t hear me.

So I left him in the street,
found a bar, lit a rollie,
bought a bourbon;

and I wondered why you deigned
to take the money from a boy
and reimburse me.

When I’d finished off the third
I left and found you in the cubicle
I left you.

I put the box of tissues
on your pillow,
and offered you the change.


Brad Frederiksen 2009

Comments are most welcome

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.