the spirit of mr. willoughby

had the religion for the paved asphalt,

for the steel train track
 
drove with the dreamers
drove with the believers
 
had the stained glass roll down windows
had the plastic crucifix 
 
head in the clouds
speedometer fixed
 
on cruise, just like the preacher man
who rolled the fuzzy dice,
 
he was good. real good at tossing
the fdr silver dime into the steel
toll basket;
 
carried the love of his life’s black and white
in his imitation wallet,
 
had it signed and dated,
 
on his tag, had the ‘MD,
 
didn’t like the ‘dr.’ title
but still did the house
call; 
 
specialty were small children
living the rural life
 
cows often laid down, sacrificed the wetness,
 
he had no regular hours, carried the 
black bag, like a bag 
of miracles,
 
his wife died back in the day
before their fortieth, 
 
scarlet fever was her demise,
 
wasn’t there to save,fought in the 
big one
 
a hero to some, but not to his children,
they were orphans of silence
 
children in war torn countries looked for shadows of vanished parents;
 
one morn, on his way to a sick offspring
 
rode next to the rail,
got the wave from 
the hobos
 
rxr crossing, sped up to save time,
 
crumpled up wreckage flew like 
a dead crow,
 
joined the wife
 
cemetery gravestones mark where you’re buried, not where you live
 
flowing water does not forgive the stones that block its path…
 
 
Copyright © 04/09/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®Image
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