Jason Hoy

Brian

A sharp freshening wind,

left over from the night before,

blows smoke away from my mouth.

Mid-day traffic pushes across Pearl Road,

I add time to the collective hours

spent relaxing on this ledge.

A man walks up the pizza shop parking lot,

in my direction, but with no conviction.

and carried by a slow unsymmetrical gait.

He had eyes like a dark symphony.

He said

“Name's Brian, pleasure to meet you.”

We had less a conversation and more an exchange:

smokes for jokes, politics, and Vietnam War stories.

The jokes semi-sexist expressions of a weathered heart,

the politics were clique grievances:

“The government can take everything but your pride.”

The war stories were never extensive and slightly funny:

“Got this limp from a badly place bullet!”

They were always followed by a stare into the middle distance.

Less jovial language told of his present life:

No wife, no kids, no home,

living somewhere in the Strongsville Metroparks,

to him,what feels most like home

There was a long silent gaze before he said

“You know man,

I thought we were all lost

cause life's journey is down a darkened path,

and a little light would soon come to guide,

but I'm starting to realize, we're all blind”