The Greatest Poet I know By Tony Robles

I don’t write
No poetry, uncle
Anthony says

I leave that to
You, you’re the
Expert he says

He sits with his
Leg crossed over
His knee and his head
Cocked to the side

And he inhales
Deeply the pure air
In my aunt’s living room

And exhales the
The word

Man

(And sometimes he draws it out:
Maaaannn)

And says

Man, I remember…
And
Man, that was a
Trip
And
Man, she was fine
And
Man, he was a beautiful
Brother but he passed
(He was young too)

I don’t write no
Poetry, he says, but
Check this out

He opens a small
Journal whose pages
Are mostly blank

His writing is big,
A combination of printing
And cursive that moves
Inside and outside the lines

And he recites his line

A rose is but
A rose is but
A rose, God bless
That Rose child

And he closes
The book and asks,
What do you think about that?

And I look at
My uncle and remember
How I laughed at the shades
He wore when I was a kid

Lollipop colored shades in
Yellow, red and green

And his bright colored clothes
That dripped the color of his
Skin, his talk, his walk, his life
On the streets stuck on
Bleak

He always walked
On the sunny side
Of the street

He’s still there as
He sits in my aunt’s
Living room

My Uncle
Anthony

© 2015 Tony Robles

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