He dreamed
and saw her under the tree
in the pink dress her mother hated.
He felt a small hand in his
in the darkness
and wanted to escort the boy.
He saw the sun of that afternoon on the circuit
when the horse was lame
and he had a headache.
He heard the voices of the hecklers
for the first time clearly.
He saw the burned city
and the white city
and the prairie town Capitol.
He smelled the market stores
along the river
and the fish there
for purchase.
He saw his father by the woodblock
with an axe in his hands
and the body of an animal at his feet.
He tasted blood.
Patrick T. Reardon
4.3.15
Originally published in the magazine Telephone Book, number 18, in 1983.
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/.
