Enjoy this poem by CG guest contributor Brad. Let's discuss...
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Lodge Men
The men descend the mountain early
Sun breathing light into the trees.
Backs bent, the angle of old age.
They leave the Lodge each morning,
medicated by nurses, shuffle down
dirt paths, roads of rock and clay.
The first paved road they come to
a highway; the men drift over the
white line. Their drug-heavy blood
called to by some new magnetic north.
Down the road, at the Dari-Delite,
they find unlocked cars. Diners leave
and find Lodge men in the passenger seat.
“Can you take me to Mulberry?” Lodge men ask.
Mulberry, down the road a few miles,
no one knows the names given to these men:
Scarfy, Captain America
More come and gone so fast names won’t stick.
One night, at the Dari-Delite, Scarfy
drags his feet down the road. Long red
scarves trailing down his pants leg, scraping
the highwayside debris. A friend dares
me to speak to him. “If he comes,” I say.
Scarfy trundles toward us. He stands at
The corner, eyes not on anything. “Hi,” I say.
For a moment, nothing. Then Scarfy
bends forward, arm and finger extended,
Lips parted. His laugh crackling the air.
That laugh still in my ear: feet scraping rock
and clay, men drifting up the hill with the dying light.
