Richard

the morning sunshine

makes the black shadows

crisp and clear,

old voices,

old memories,

whisper softly in my ear,

good days,

bad days,

days that come,

days that go,

dead black cats

lying in the middle of the road,

as the darkness waits

for the silence to grow;

he’s dead now,

he had a wife and young son,

her name was Phyllis (I think),

he was the only one

who cared enough about me

to say no,

the only one more worried about what was right,

than what was cool;

I remember hearing the news

the night he died,

on a dark and lonely highway,

full of ludes and booze,

now years later

I realize,

no one ever knew

what a hero he was;

except me.

.

.