It
was the spring of year four
By
then Fred was out of the luxury digs of Mt. Sinai.
We
were back on Lorimer St.
He
reclining
Me,
as I was often during those years
Leaning
in leaning over listening for news
From
his body.
Aah,
Fred, I said, as I counted the stitches down his torso
And
brushed the medallion of skin made by his port.
Aah
Fred, look at what the surgeons have gifted you
A
way out, a way forward.
But
not for his soul
for
his waste.
Aah
Fred and I leaned in closer
because
now it was my turn to come to terms
with
the positive and negative space of him.
Fred
I said
You
got you one hell of a crater.
And
we laughed as we crossed that bridge.
Years
later Bronze Fred stood before me:
I
know you I said, how I know you.
Of
course it made all the sense in the world to me that
Fred
was decked out in saxophone keys
With
good luck where the port used to be
Only
partially clothed in splendor
Which
was true during the days when wounds needed air.
The
professorial specs
The
eyes joined by his troublemaking grin.
I
looked at Bronze Fred.
He
looked at me.
We
laughed.
