Patrick

Patrick talks about his mining days. Bo, he says, was a crusty old miner, addicted to methadone, booze and cough syrup--he dropped a sack of pigs heads once, trapped by a steel door slamming shut in Manhattan, spilled heads out of black plastic bag they rolled all over the street him there between the door and the sidewalk watching them tumble helplessly their leather glazed eyes in frantic circles. Should hear him tell the story.

Patrick drove from Kansas to Washington, his wife, son, and boxes of jewelry packed into a yellow old Toyota, the seats roof and truck full, a hippie grapes of wrath pouring in new oil every 50 miles, car plugging away, up over hills and i think of i think i can i think i can i think. He set up shop outside my house, pieces spread over two tables. We talked there under tall pines looking out over the fort, the beach. He tells me about Bo, and New York.

I mention Deposit, his eyes squinting he licks at wrinkled mouth corners and pulls at his grey. “Can’t feature where that is. Some beautiful country, there upstate. Didn’t know how close you were to the city.” 

I knew that city--every street, sewer and park. Didn’t think too much of upstate until now, thousands of miles away, far as possible really and how I miss it--the mountains and leaves and streams. A different time. Where I can smell the changing seasons and keep on waiting for an autumn light that doesn’t come.

Charles Imbelli
2007