Franklin Rothschild Poem by Patrick Fleskes

The cool mint air of fall,

Hung low across the misty mountainside,

Dragging the weariness of night by its collar,

Royal, regal purple-lit sky,

Braces the shadows 'neath,

Trees, tickets, bridges,

An' houses (standing static) ,

Careless atoms drifted,

With lazy refusal to attach, or complicate,

And careless chemicals reacted,

Taking no heed of reaction,

And nothing ends,



Franklin Rothschild was an old black man from the south,

He was a dying man,

For like all of his particular creator's creation's,

He was born with an expiration date,

Marked, in black ink,

Not on the soles of his feet,

But the soul he had in his possession for 80 some years,



Listen close,

He had a face, which sprawled like a road map,

Containing every achievement, love and tragedy he carried,

Physical proof for his decaying mind,

His eyes, a rustic blue, held a pricing stare,

Leaving lesser men tremblin' in their raw truth...



Old Frankie sat on the porch,

On this established fall dusk,

Throwing back large gulps of whiskey,

Straight outta the bottle,

Some awfully harsh, local brew,

'The Devil's Bitch', the crude title given,

The label contained a young girl,

Barely dressed,

Barely born,

Her body positioned, lustfully,

With eyes directed at the viewer,

Preachin' love, somethin' the girl herself,

Whom had never truly felt...

And those tired, old hands cradled her, unknowingly,

And those hands indicated,

Visual cues of his strength and humanity (that tragic fragility) ,

Till the end, his handshake was firm,

With all the scars,

Deep lacerations, collected from countless occupations,

Bulging blue varicose veins,

resembling old oak roots, beneath the soil, his skin,

And his callouses,

Layers built upon layers of the broken skin,

Are all organic ink to the body's flesh,

Spread on the skin who is the paper,

A means of possible, impossibilities.



Frankie held in his mind an old tune,

Made drank off the whiskey, he hummed it,

Though was never aware of him doing so,

Nor were the nearest souls,1/2 a mile down the road,

An old show tune, 'Walk Right In',

To himself he hummed and partially sang the words,

'Hmmwwaalllk Righhtt Inn,

siiiitttt righhtt dowww,

an' baby lettt your minddd rooll oonn'

He tapped his foot softly,

Always patiently on beat,

As a younger man,

At his best,

he could break your heart,

with his slide guitar,

Of which he had long since sold for financial woes, accumulated,

Slowly his foot lost the rhythm,

Slowly dragging down to nothin',

Frankie's weight fell back,

Into his rockin' chair,

His mouth ran dry,

His eyes dulled,

Unable to capture any wit or farewell out of his last breath,

He simply finished, '...baby let yourrr miinnd roll on'.