jarsonic

The "last round" bell clanged, sending Island night owls slowly shuffling out. Drunkenly, Ernest eyed the lighthouse above tops of trees Showing the way home, stumbling back from Sloppy Joes. Cracked chips of paint cling To his hands in the humidity, from clutching too tightly At railings, mounting the porch steps where Six-toed felines and a wife wait on Whitehead Street. Clickity-clackity, composing chapters, putting genius on paper Before electroshocks and shotgun solitude can take it away Like Castro confiscated his Cuba, leaving An old man and his sea of sorrow, stretching Ninety miles to Havana Harbor.

Satellite And you -- fixed between the moon and naught, seem A satellite that orbits 'round my world And others', too, but I can see the gleam Of your smile so high above me, that pearled Glisten of Light reflected from the Son By your burnished surface; shimmering you Dance across the sky, for you know that one Gaze tracks through the night your path straight and true. Circling others, you do seem quite small Bright stars surround you, but you stand apart From them; so unique, you confound them all-- Yet you still found your way into my heart.  Though gravity holds you not and you soar  You'll slingshot this way and come back