“It’s a worm under my fingernail…”

a blind man told me under a dark,

crescent moon, but it wasn’t time,

and it wasn’t enough – it was never

enough – so he lit his pipe and said

he was tired; I poured his wine, a

nasty mixture of red and white; a

drink his grandmother gave to him;

into his crystalline glass, his dull

eyes swept from side to side, more

muttering, more bellowing, I led

his hand to the stem, he lifted the

glass to his lips, cracked and sore

they split, he poured the drink, all

told, down his throat, I waited for his

response, whether it light or dark,

but he did not speak; in all my days,

in the everest of evers and poor laid

plains, I had never seen a man like

this, and I cried the day he died;

one tear that stained my shirt; a night

in Africa, I poured a glass, mixing

white and red wines, and I toasted

the grandeur, wishing he and his

next life safe travels, and with one

lift to my lips, I downed the glass

and shifted my weight so that my

heavy side was no longer my light.

~ by Shawn M. Young on October 24, 2016.

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