After Vietnam, an LSD overdose left him homeless for a while.
10 am, he is not up. 11…by noon he is awake.
“Hi, hey brother,”
“Hi, Duane,” and we step into the trailer.
I notice his fingers are stained brown as he rolls a cigarette,
and we try to find a clean place to sit down.
The place is trashed. Cigarette ashes everywhere; torn furniture,
garbage collecting flies-weeks even months old.
We sit down and he offers us coffee. “Have you been to see mom yet?”
we came by to see how you were doing first,” was our reply.
I notice the stray dog and cat come and go freely-
the way strangers, users and low on their luck relatives
move in and out of the broken glass door of the trailer
during the hours we visit.
I really have to use the bathroom,
but wonder who or what I might find in there,
and so I don’t move from my seat.
I wonder to myself if I will bring back fleas to my dog and cat back home.
We get to talking about the drive,
the family and how long we will be staying.
“Leaving tomorrow morning, so we came by to say hey.”
“So, do you need anything?” we ask.
He says no- and asks if we need anything.
I noticed earlier the cupboards are bare.
By the end of our short visit, I stand up to go.
I notice a psychedelic drawing he must have made
that is hanging by a thumbtack in the wall.
And as we leave, I feel bad, about worrying, about fleas.