Philadelphia Poem for David Snellbaker
You
were the first real friend I ever made here
Telling
me about your days with a Mexican religious cult
Where
they tried to brainwash that man
right
out of your hair.
You
said, “They’d have to whitewash the streets with blood”
to
make you feel clean again.
Bridget
You
sang songs by Woody Guthrie
Not
the originals
But
covers by the Counting Crows
Placed
your heart in a locket
Hidden
under a pillow
On
the third floor of a West Toledo mental ward.
You
never learned how to dance
Just
painted flowers on your toes
when
it came time to bloom.
Drunk John
gave
me $7 and a cigar snip
for
my 25th birthday
the
morning his girlfriend
kicked
him out
of
their spruce street apartment.
the
year before
i’d
watched as she passed him
love
notes in hindi
across
the bar
while
he listened
to
iggy pop
on
the jukebox
as
it rained outside.
i
could swear he was crying
when
he sang happy birthday
under
the busted street light.
John Dorsey is the author of several
collections of poetry, including “Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw’s
Prayer” (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), “Sodomy is a City in New Jersey”
(American Mettle Books, 2010), “Tombstone Factory” (Epic Rites Press, 2013),
and most recently, “Natural Selection: Early Poems” (Kilmog Press, 2014). His
work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He may be reached at
archerevans@yahoo.com
