Chester

By: Paul Bone

We were on our way to ruins, 

more sunken stones,

with an hour or less before

the bus would take us

into Wales, where sometimes

we would not know the words,

or search the harder for them,

such as hastening to relics.

So down the narrow sidewalk

we strode long-legged.

Too busy in the head naming

this feeling, I did not see

the man until he’d passed,

his falling no more a sound

a coat upon a stick 

might make, a hand-sized mailer

flung out in front and what 

he gathered to him before

he tried to rise. Stay here,

on your knees, I said.

Let’s see if you’re all right

(with dignity, if you can,

I wanted to add, just one more

feeling impossible to tell).

The blood from his hooked nose

poured in a bright runnel,

such garish display given 

his grey overcoat, 

almost suedish skin, the downy note

of his “Oh dear.” The nurse

who happened on us

brushed his white hair back.

We let our tissues darken

and drop like sickly fruits

as the bleeding slowed,

then led him to the bench

where, in that busy square,

a Welsh busker sang Dylan

and this man, Alan, waited 

among strangers, more strangers

coming with the ambulance

which, rushing properly,

arrived and parted the crowd

with whoops and lime-green authority.

We let him go, our charge,

and he allowed himself

again to be ushered,

black uniform to each arm.

How could it be, I thought,

the envelope just fitting

his coat pocket, manila stripe

just showing, the splatter concealed?

Surely he held the word

for that day, whether to read

or pass it on elsewhere

none of us could really say

----------------------------------------------------------

Paul Bone

Harlaxton Visiting Faculty Spring 2019

Associate Professor University of Evansville

pb28@evansville.edu