A Selected Poem FROM PREVIOUS WRITING RON THOMAS WRITER
OLD SONGS Ron Thomas Writer
Joe was dying, cancer attacking his spine. Joe was dying but left us his card to get in the Elks Club. Saturday mornings, long runs, seven-minute miles along the asphalt path that edges the bay. Seven-minute miles and we were having borderline theological discussions about whether Jesus ever had a hard-on. And if He did was He really God? And if He didn’t was He really human? The bay, flat and glistening; the bay glistens and we’re all legs and gliding. Ron Thomas Writer Mostly it was Kell, Semper Fi, and me, and sometimes Don the Marathon Man. Joe used to run with us, but he got sick and left us his card. The Elks Club. A lap pool and a giant hot tub after a 20-mile run. Ron Thomas Writer I went to see Joe when he was dying, in bed at home. I felt awkward. Joe knows he’s dying, and I know he’s dying. What do you say? Joe helped me out and brought up sports. Ron Thomas Writer The long, flat stretch along the bay with distant white birds bobbing on the water, and then we loop around the streets of Burlingame, a city of trees. Low sun in the morning sky, and endorphins kicking in, autumn trees flashing colors. Long-striding down the middle of the street and every once in awhile some leaves floating down. Ron Thomas Writer Joe finally died, and the church was crammed full of San Francisco firemen. Kell got up to give a eulogy. He reached in his pocket to retrieve some quotes from scripture, but his pocket was empty. He’d left the quotes at home. He slid into the pew beside me and whispered I blew it. Ron Thomas Writer Eventually, my left knee went bad, and I couldn’t run anymore. I tried going along on a bicycle once or twice, but it wasn’t the same. Don the Marathon Man got throat cancer and talks through a hole in his throat. I ran into him at a supermarket and said I was sorry about the cancer. He smiled and rasped It’s okay. I never had shit to say anyway. Ron Thomas Writer Running. Elks Club. The bay. That was years ago. I’m going in for a biopsy on my prostate on Monday. I’m more afraid of the needle used for the procedure than the outcome. Time moves, the body ages. Ron Thomas Writer I visited Kell a couple of weeks back. He moved into a smaller house and got a piano. When it was time to leave, I got in my truck and looked up at his front window. The window frames the piano, and Kell was on the piano bench, his head bent down, staring at the keys. He had one finger pecking. One finger pecking at the keys like he was trying to figure it out, how one note follows another. Trying his damnedest just to remember a tune. Ron Thomas Writer |
Ron Thomas Writer