Jimmy Burns
SCRAP MAN
Old dented, bondo encrusted pickup,
rust covered by drippy coat of gray primer,
exhales more carbon dioxide
than oxygen it inhales,
smokes like a well puffed cigarette
as it snakes down
a narrow rural lane:
its driver begs a man
seated in a wheelchair:
do you have any junk metal?
The disabled man sits
on the value of his chair,
shakes head up and down, no,
thinking that at a half a cent a pound,
the driver's poverty
is greater than his own.
* * *
EXIT TUNE
Dying man,
lungs full of pneumonia,
ambulatory,
life supported
by oxygen tank
at his side;
he sits on his patio,
enjoys nature,
spends his last days
observing
a red cockaded woodpecker
drilling worms
from dead red oak;
it rattles an interruptive cadence,
irregular,
but constant in dying man's
head, he senses
when silence covers noise,
he will die.
* * *
CONTINUATION DURING THE DAY
Type poetry with good right hand, ignore dysfunction of left,
shuffle deck of cards with same hand, all night gamble with context
of venue, affiliation of right fingers wiggle and projects diction
upon paper, spread spice and seasoning on roasted beef, fill right
side of oven, lift with right handed thrust, more of the day right,
right, right, without thought of left motivation.
Jimmy Burns writes his poetry with his right arm from his wheelchair at his rural home at the edge the urban chaos of Houston. Burns survived a stroke at age 49 in 2005 and retired from teaching English. Burns had published many poems before stroke and more
afterwards. Recent poetry in Backstreet, Clark Street Review, Edgz, Left Behind, Nomad's Choir, Pegasus. Saturday Diner, Sol, Wordgathering and Writer's Block .
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