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

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