UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 11/2012

BRIAN PITT

Freedom Square Poem

The old man sat there with clam chowder dribbling down his chin.
In the corners of his mouth were crusty lumps of chowder that had been turning into chalk-like peas with every toothless slurp.
He made the nurses call him Henry even though that wasn't his real name.
Henry had a little microphone connected to a tube in his ear that we had to speak into so he could hear us.
The nurses aids would walk by and say "Would you like fries with that?" into the ear mic.
Henry was also blind.
He was a blind and deaf dog of an old man with a loud voice and a crusty chowder mouth.
He smelled like mothballs.
A classic, this guy.
He had a nickel sized hole in the top of his coppery-purple spotted head.
The hole smelled like fish.
Yes, I smelled it.
We all snuck a smell of Henry's head hole at some point.
The candy stripers would throw M&M's in it when he was catching a quick snooze at his little dinner table.
I used to say "Thank you, drive thru." into his ear mic and throw pennies at his head.
Pink Angel Vomit.









2004-2012 Underground Voices