for Charlie Smith
In my mind, I’m watching you as you write,
your eyes like those clear mountain streams gone wild
from rush of melting snow, like larks in flight
mad from beast swipes of gunshots, like the child
first hearing music, your curled hair like glossed
ghost-colored sedans curving endlessly
in those twisted off-ramps scribbled then tossed
aside by crazed engineers, your slit mouth
and swelled lungs forcing you again to breathe,
your trained hands maneuvering in attack
and retreat, pause and attack as keys seethe
with passion for more always more words stacked
in columns like screaming soldiers, or lost
orphans, or abused lovers numb to cost.
Roger Armbrust
May 31, 2014
