Sitting on the tailgate facing the duck pond,
He was consuming the last of the clear, bronze liquid
That burned as it trickled down the inflamed esophagus,
When, suddenly, out of nowhere, Pastor G— walked up.

“Good morning, my brother, beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Good morning, Pastor, yeah, it’s kind of nice out.”

By then, the pastor had fully taken note of the near empty
Bottle. “I want to pray with you,” he said, and he began:
“Dear Lord, help this good brother. Take away his desire
For the demon liquor, take away his very taste for it . . .”

The brother poured out the remnant of the fifth, as the pastor
Concluded his entreaty for his troubled soul . . .

As the liquor seeped into the soil, the brother thought
Of the fifth in the pickup under the seat, and his father’s gun—
An old, .38 Police Special.

And great was his comfort in knowing that help was neigh—
In the pickup, under the seat, and would rush to the rescue,
As soon as the preacher man took his supplications elsewhere!

But the kindly pastor decided to stay and talk to the brother
Out of the scriptures, and he talked until the sun was high,
And until the brother began to quake from the inside out,
And until demons began to descend from the boughs
Of the cottonwood trees, and as a thousand ants, dressed
in full, battle regalia, began to march up and down
the brother’s cracking throat . . .

4 Responses to “Lorenzi Park, 1981”

1. oxygon Says:
   October 22nd, 2009 at 6:56 pm

   Not a pleasant story poem, but there’s a sense of triumph in having overcome the scourge, and only the poet can fully appreciate how near the edge of the abyss he had gone.

   art

2. oxygon Says:
   October 22nd, 2009 at 7:01 pm

   My Father died, April 27, 1980.

   art

3. oxygon Says:
   October 22nd, 2009 at 10:58 pm

   I have written a good number of these “historical” pieces to not allow myself to forget the agony, and despair, and the horror of the enslavement I had to endure during those episodes in my life. Freedom means many a thing to me, and I’ve cultivated a passion for it in the human experience. If I had to choose between freedom, and riches, I have no doubt freedom would easily win out.

   art

4. littlebeknown Says:
   October 23rd, 2009 at 3:54 pm

   I like the story very much — there’s a bit of humor in the situation — and a bit of horror. I remember hiding the bottles around — and the feeling of when things began to wear off — withdrawal from alcohol is painful — but you are right about the freedom — I haven’t had a drink in almost twenty years — the guy in your story-poem is just beginning and it’s painful to go through — and to read about. Thanks for the poem. Jerry

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.
Don't have an account with American Poems yet? Register now!