5/31/2022 Poetry by Dick Westheimer Peter Corbett CC
The last time I said Do you know who I am I was so high, I really didn’t know. I asked my buddy who slurred, You are Dicky, definitely Dicky, he spun around, wild-eyed, said, But I am so fucked up, man. I just don’t know. He spilled to the ground, sat lotus posed, cupped the word “Do” in his upturned palms. Doooo, he crooned. Dooooo, like a mantra. Doooo. Doooo. Such a far-out word. He exhaled hard and “Do” puffed into dust. Next he held the word “You” between his thumb and forefinger. “You” shone like a blue gemstone. As he peered into it, I saw his eye, bright as the snow moon and cried. I saw right through that that jewel – an image, my beautiful friend, older, his Saturn-wide smile pinched – a vision of how he’d married Rose, how she’d unraveled, saw spirits, was an off-leash Doberman about the littlest things: a missing snippet of paper, a harsh word from years before, a star concealed behind clouds. She’d walk off in the night, find her way to an all night cash-and-carry. Under the buzzing blue lights she’d sob, beseech the weary shift worker, Do you know who I am? My buddy looked back at me through that same lysergic acid-etched lens, saw a gauzy future – me living a perfect life with a perfect wife, with our perfect kids. So a few years later when his Rosey really did come undone, Dwight didn’t tell me, he just fell from my life. He changed his phone number, pulled the blinds tight. After his kids had grown he finally called. We met for coffee. Over the steaming mugs, he told me of the lunacy, said the crazy was half magic, that Rose brought tea in china cups to old women living under bridges, spoke Truth with cats and dogs. Other times she’d run into the woods, her skimpy robe snagging on brambles. She’d be gone til morning - or the next. She’d curse their kids and hitchhike to dive bars in Indiana, sleep on restroom floors, not call for weeks, finally come home and tear her hair into ragged wads and stuff it down the drains. He looked up from his still-full mug, his hands cupping it as if it were still warm, said, “Now, Dicky, you know who I am.” Fifty years later, he is the only one who still calls me “Dicky.” Dick Westheimer has—with his wife and writing companion Debbie—lived on their plot of land in rural southwest Ohio for over 40 years. His most recent poems have appeared or are upcoming in Rattle, Paterson Review, Chautauqua Review, RiseUp Review, Minyan, Gyroscope Review, and Cutthroat. More can be found at dickwestheimer.com |
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