Old Man Rum

 

Listen, 

do you know Old Man Rum?
The patron saint
of poets and perverts,
homos and hobos,
coyotes and castaways,
Burning their quaint lives
at the skid row, huddled
along the margins of a city

That old man

Who wears

dirty rotten teeth,
a wry smile
Ancient manners
And a ragged tweed coat
with countless years
in its pockets,
and the funky smell
of a century
washed yesterday

Old Man Rum visits me
in quiet humid nights,
murmuring faraway tales;
His raspy gravelly voice
never fails to provoke
a desperate longing for
the lap of my father

His voice wafts up
from the depths of my
third, perhaps fourth drink;
And the fishnet of worries
stretched across my brow
lets go, of
this school of memories,
I should have forsaken

long ago

Image courtesy Sue Clinker