icarus

“That blue,”

he said again and again,

finger pointed at the dingy hospital wall.

His body trembled

as if he lay on a “magic fingers” bed

on high—on the derangement setting.

Yet, later, he sang

softly, and so sanely,

we hoped he was coming around

“And I was feathered—

he screamed.

And I flew”

They found him walking on the railroad tracks

twelve days ago.

He was clutching what was left

of his Gibson twelve string.

He said his name was Icarus.

God knows what he had dropped.

The docs didn’t.

They waited two weeks,

then warehoused him for the long term.

His parents had means—

so it wasn’t a bad place.

For a while, we’d go to visit.

But, he would just stare at the sky

as if it held an invitation—

a summons to the day

he had flown so high

he had almost touched the sun.