Saturday, December 22, 2012

The Last Time I Saw Mingus

The Last Time I Saw Mingus

The last time I saw Mingus
He stood in his driveway, across from ours
Talking with my mother.
His dark dashiki
Made him look like a great bearded priest,
Heavy with years, and music.
They spoke quietly of the weather, and of maintaining their homes,
But not of their children, though looking back
I can see that they were really speaking about us.
He laid a gentle hand on my nine-year-old shoulder,
In neighborly welcome.
And Mom saw it as a blessing.
Her eyes were still bright with hope in those days,
Even though dark times had come for them both.

David O’Hara
A friend asked me about this poem, one I dreamed entire and repeatedly throughout the night, and then scrawled onto paper as soon as I awoke. I posted it here for him. I'm never sure what to make of such things that come to us in the night. 

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