Edgar had a dream

In Washington, aside a crowd

Stood a man in his seventies. One foot forward, one foot blinded by a corner. Diminished by applause. And maybe something – might be a shine – gave a nickel to his chin. On an edge of worthy, there he waited, and forgot to take the tip to his pocket. And maybe something – might be a rhyme – gave a fickle to his shin. On a badge of worthy, there he scratched his leg, and forget to make a tap to his socket.

And maybe something gave a dime to his dim. Assorted to his wallet. Some quirk of  insistence, lost by someone else while fevering – hopping hands to shear –, some lurk of persistence that sparkled, from the stairs of his dreams. To reach. This flicker.

And mother waited. In the upstairs of his childhood. This flicker. In her hands meatballs which she twisted. And mother waited. In the upstairs of his fears. When Edgar was a toddler. When nothing more appeared to be unreachable.

And Edgar took.

And maybe something – might be a lot – gave a notion to his motion. On a catch of worthy, there he clapped, and forgot to rake around the corner. And maybe something – might be a cot – gave a stench to his potion. On a match of worthy, there he pissed his pants, and forgot to fake at least the worn out.

And maybe something gave a dollar to his shimmer. Assorted to his wallet. Some quirk of  insistence, lost by someone else while fevering – hopping hands to shear –, some lurk of persistence that sparkled, from the cot of his dreams. To reach. This flicker.

And father waited. In the cot of his childhood. This flicker. In his hands a milkshake which he thirsted. And father waited. While he pissed his pants. In the cottage of his fears. When Edgar was a toddler. When nothing more appeared to be accessible.

And Edgar took.

And maybe something – might be a word – gave a shriek to his pause. On a patch of worthy, there he numbed, and forgot to yell the crowd. And maybe something – might be a flicker – gave a punch to his stomach. On a march of worthy, there he halted, and forgot to.

And maybe something gave a check to his gleam. Assorted to his wallet. Some quirk of  insistence, lost by someone else while fevering – hopping hands to shear –, some lurk of persistence that sparkled, from the steam of his dreams. To reach. This flicker.

And Edgar took.

Stood a man in his seventies. One foot forward, one foot blinded by a corner.

*

(dedicated to Martin Luther King; John Edgar Hoover)