Deep
Patrick T. Reardon
One-Cent runs like
two thousand pigs into the deep. He is
where the wind starts. Later, he
will be buried facedown. The beaver trap snaps.
Wendi in a dress and doubt,
hereticked. Two brothers, one
paid the price. The nun, unJesused,
still in love with the uglies at
the sinners table. This one set upon by family,
that one left behind.
No Name wasn’t his name.
Patrick T. Reardon
5.1.26
This poem originally appeared at Book of Matches, Issue 17, on 5.1.26
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.