markbousfield

JACK PARADISE
I wedged the fire escape open with the rusty old extinguisher,
the hand rolled cigarette lolled on my bottom lip,
dry as always.

There he sat,
(as he did every Tuesday night)
staring into his fire.

A vision in a flannel shirt and torn courdoroy,
Onyx eyes staring into the flame glimmering
salt decayed stars and an old blues refrain,
a Mississippi delta rhythm,
mulled wine slugged from an etched silver hipflask,
a bird of Paradise sitting on his knee.

A black cut of hair curled to his brow
as I asked from where the wood for the fire came.

He laughed, tilting his head back he joyously explained,

'Reclaimed! Reclaimed! Reclaimed!'