Tulip Mania – SG Phillips

December 4, 2019

I saw Horace on his Porch, told me I won’t get far,

In between big swigs of Beam’s Eight Star.

He sat there every morning dropping pearls of advice,

Bumming a smoke, telling ladies they looked nice.

He lived across the road from a chain liquor store,

Every dawn huffing to it, and back each evening for more.

 

Sun’s glow cascading down the pale-grained street,

Made it clear each morning for his stumbling feet.

Every pockmark and skin tag rendered severe,

His gin blossom nose, a long storied career

 

“With the sun

One must look away to see day

We look Unsteady, to the moon for its form.”

 

His form moved more slowly in damned dark night, but you could tell it was him.

His gait more relaxed, his balance dimmed.

And he always shuffled back to begin it again.

 

I put a flower on his grave, he didn’t move far,

He asked for a flower, I leave him Beam’s Eight Star.