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Frank Who Could Fly

October 6, 2016



He didn’t look like

Most men I met

On the streets


He was dressed well

Nicer than me



But his feet were swollen

His body looked worn

And he wore a red pack

On his back


Catching me off guard

He extends his hand


I hesitate


“Frank” he says

Aw what the hell, I think.

“Brian” as we shake hands


Rambling from the get go

Speaking of his grandfather

98 years young


I had no idea what he was talking about

It was coherent

But strange


He was sleeping outside tonight

'This is my home'

As he placed his foot down on the pier


He talked about doing drugs

Being out of the house for eight to nine months

Having a family with kids


I couldn’t separate the real from the fake


He spoke of God

being chosen

And battling demons

He felt singled out


'I thought of jumping off that building

There and seeing if I can fly'


He pointed to the parking structure


'I did it when I was a kid

Now I have plates in my leg'


He takes drugs for pain

And to ‘manage’.

He didn’t say what

I’m guessing his mind


Mentally ill

But not too far gone

Far as I could tell


But he remembered my name

When the conversation came to a close


It was nice meeting you, Brian.

We both shared that feeling


Frank was lost in a sea of thoughts

Looking for someone to swim with him


As he rambled from one wave to another

I decided to catch a few rides with him

Before it was time to head back to shore

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