The End of Time
Whenever I think of Sandy
I think, first, of his lined red face, his brightening smile
And scrub and dust and boots, and thin cheroots
And an old guitar that sings a while
———–
No cares survived to scar his life
Few needs, and too few friends preserved, pristine, his time
But distant heartbeats feed, between the bottle and the weed
Within the space of memory that is mine
———–
He is not real, of course, this Sandy
A screen on which the movie-mind shows light
Projected from a dream, this wilderness from far is seen
As necessary to complete the man who might
———–
His Harley gathers dust and grime
Behind old timber slats, that smell of creosote and sun
But the key that swings, on its old chrome rings,
Will only with my fingers turn and run
———–
Whenever I think of Sandy
The distance is his scrub and dust that blinds; not mine
No gravestone mars the plot, where he laid down his lot
His passing simply marks the end of time
———–
©Copyright Stephen Tanham, 2015
Sun in Gemini 
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