I smell the dust of the ranch
and the smoke of the hill
still as I sit here
and listen to congressmen.
I feel the bruise of the bullet,
the slam of it,
into the folded speech.
I see her sometimes
in the corners of mirrors.
I see her dead
and smell the room.
Part of me
is watery and dark
and filled with tinny echoes.
Patrick T. Reardon
7.8.17
Written @ 1980.
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/.