toxic spill
a blue heron afloat
on the debris
water lilies
tiny green frogs
glisten in the sun
Free
Verse
Homeless
in St. Louis
Lazy,
carefree, that Sunday evening
our daughter called, said she’d
passed our schizophrenic son on I-40.
Going to St. Louis he’d said.
God calling him to preach there
because his name is Lewis. Nothing
she could do, him manic, belligerent.
Gone without medications that some—
times held his feet to earth, often
let him fly away into some world
we cannot fathom. Gone without
a change of clothes. Three hundred
miles he hitchhiked to Memphis,
three hundred more miles to St. Louis,
walking many hours in the delirious heat.
He lost his billfold, threw his coat
in a dumpster. Kind hearts gave him
food; a Samaritan bought him shoes.
Sleeping on the street, in shelters,
terrified of strangers, the voices
in his head. After weeks of anxiety,
the telephone call came. Come home,
come home, I said into his spill of
gibberish. He refused, but home
stuck in his head. After demon dogs
with fiery eyes chased him down a tunnel,
he hitched a night ride to Memphis,
the drunk driver’s speed limits boundless.
In Memphis, he turned up at his sister’s
door, a place he’d never been. Uncanny
how he found his way, hallucinating,
filthy, unshaven, feet blistered and
bloody, shoes flapping. She fed,
doctored, bought clothes, a ticket home.
We met him at the bus station. No
hello, but an urgent need for a backpack
and supplies. God calling him to the
wilderness. St. Louis had been a journey
to hell. We could not endure forty days
in a wilderness, stones in his bread. We
called the sheriff, committed him to hospital.
Last evening, a Cardinals game on t.v.,
the arch in the background, he said,
“I’ve been there. I saw the arch.”
We’ve been there, too, walking streets,
quailing at voices, hiding from strangers,
sleeping on sidewalks. I dream of eyes
in the night, demon or savior, I cannot say.
