Tom Sheehan


A drunk startles me
from a doorway.
He cries against
his motherís arms,
into darkness
and nothing of daylight,
which has gone like a thief
over the stonewall at streetís end.
His wail vibrates
slowly off the curbstone,
goes cold, curb-gray,
weak as a river
out of sight
under thick alders.
He is not alone despite
all this loneliness,
this cold street,
September touching pavement,
Saturday touching
Sunday, acceptance,
being what you are
and where youíre supposed to be.

I keep seeing
the dark doorman
stashed in his cubicle,
shaded, ragged, dreaming
of the door opening, light
spilling on his hands,
night flaking its pieces
from his soft shoes,
a voice touching
where his mouth went.

Date of Birth: 1928
Location: Boston, Massachusettes
Publications: Paumanok Review, Literary Potpourri, Clackamas Literary Review, Carnelian, Samsara, AJoP, Comrades, Slow Trains, 3am Magazine, Dakota House Journal, Small Spiral Note-book, Red River Review, Stirring V3:E7, V3:E8, V4:E1, etc.
Awards: 2001 Silver Rose Award for Excellence of the Short Story, First Prize Eastoftheweb non-fiction competition, Nominee for Pushcart Prize XXVII and inclusion in The Zine Yearbook.

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