The deep end of life

Walking Oxygen

The sound enters before he does, the respiration
of a valve-locked regulator, the unison efforts
of his labored breathing, together making a wind
that brushes against the silence of this library.

The man has seen better days, before he had
to push the small handcart with the silver slim
tank affixed like steeled punctuation to a sentence.
No sprints today or ever again, say the slow days.



Isolation swims in the deep end of life, you might say
to me were you here noting my observation of a man
who might’ve fought in Korea, lost buddies, hoisted
tankards of steely cold ale to the memory of their names.

But for now, he is walking his oxygen through the Dewey
Decimals, past spine edges split in fictions and non, systems
he has known and mercifully forgotten like the date he shipped
out, the day he crossed over, dim faces seen only in nighthaunts.

Joseph Gallo
September 27, 2012