Across the street from the Rosemont diner, food a plenty served with love for two, sat an old brown man holding print paper, rattling bones his luck not holding true. It seems to me, I said for endeavor, this river street runs a title true, across it seems, there’s foliage deemed for wet lands, please tell me is it true? Should be a river I think over yonder, should be a bank with water running through, contemplate this old man, you’re not a stranger, is there a river across there running through? The old brown man, holding print paper, the old brown man looked me through, and then his eyes thinned, laced like a rapier, his life of longevity shook me through and through.
The truth young sir, is something you can’t live with, the fable of life is where you find you’re own, in life I knew there should be a river, across the street it should run through, across this bow its water running new. His voice like death dyeing on dark embers, his face a mask of something gotten blue, you see in truth he’s never seen a river, that water of life so close to me and you. Right across the street, so close that steps should walk it, a bird has seen it so far up in the blue, but that brown man, the one with print paper, the one rolling bones he seems to have no clue.
On Ruby Street he was born a poor son, a beggar of a thieve in 1942. Six blocks west, there should be a river, but pain came first, a way to make it through. Bottles and bones, a culture of a fiefdom, a caste, Americana, red, white and blue. Demographic shame, father, son to reaper, a place lost from conscience, well hidden from our view. Truth it seems, is hidden from a river, a shelter it deems should help us through, how often it is, across the street there’s water, we die from thirst watching it flow through.
The old brown man, the one outside the diner, the one you’ve seen calling, is it really you? Hail now friend, there now should be a river, across your street have you seen it running through.
The old brown man sitting outside the Denny’s right across the street from the Des Plaines River in Rosemont, Illinois, had actually never seen the river itself when I asked him how to find i he seemed confused. He had lived his whole life no more than eight blocks from it. If eyes tell the truth his did. His words I will always remember, “There should be a river over beyond those trees, may be a mile or so but I’m not for certain”. The truth was it was no more than a quarter of a mile from where we sat and talked. – 07.15.2014 –דָּנִיֵּאל