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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

Actually

 

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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