The Toasted Man

10 am
Saturday
His legs take turns,  propelling him through clouded crystalline barriers,
Inky black thoughts clasped in his left hand.
The toasted man takes his place among the
Meager masses on his chafing
pleather throne

240 seconds, a cup of tar, and 6 white cubes
Reveal the foot prints of spectral crows as they
Perch at opposite occipital with
talons that scratch at his temples.

The toasted man is old.
Garfield chats with The Peanuts as he
fingers the classifieds and fondles the sports page,
tiptoeing past the implicit cautions that make
their home in the obituary.

Salt and pepper dreads down the back from the head of the olive toned stranger compliment the freckles and dots that speckle his exposed hands like six kix in a box of cocoa puffs,

Hands, that wear scars from careless mistakes made in days of old, cradle a mug with the delicacy of a mind honed by patience.

The toasted man is my best friend,
But we’ve never met

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1 Comment on "The Toasted Man"

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J.rid
Member

Ah yes I do see the watcher in you in this poem. I enjoyed all the gentle phrases you
twisted around what sounded a hard life. Yes after living so and knowing nothing
changes the end is inevatable the waiting patiently is one option.
Boy or boy your words poem made me go back and read a few times,

wpDiscuz

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