Image 21

At rest at last on a bench in Franklin Square,
quare fellows lying all about
out for the count or every so often waking
aching for another shot or hit,
it seemed, a groggy Xavier stretched his back.
Ack! It felt like every single muscle
cell had died and sent him straight to Hades.
“These kinds of pains are bitches. Some Versed?”
said a man in a filthy yellow jumpsuit.
“Suit yourself,” he added when X was silent.
“I lent my extra blanket to that sailor,
or I’d hook you up,” he said and cracked a smile.
“I’ll be fine,” X mumbled, “but thanks for the offer.”
For quite some time he sat engrossed in thought.
Ought he go to meet his fellow Xavier?
“You’re looking mighty troubled. Want some pudding?”
Ding. A switch was flipped in X’s memory,
or he flipped it himself: emerging from a cloud,
loud thumps as his not-quite-mirror image,
age two or so, pounded on a window.
Oh! His brother, stuck in a station wagon.
Again, he watched him be taken away.
“A is for Apple” was written on his shirt.
Hurt had flooded X’s mind, but still,
’til now those pangs were hidden, lost in time.
“I’m not sure where that came from,” Xavier muttered—
uttered with a nod—“but…” (Pause. His friend had
ended up face-down between two benches,
his jumpsuit’s back now flush in X’s view.)
“…You must be joking.” REIVAX, read the logo.
Go figure. Xavier shrugged, and left it at that.

[2:00 / repeating / echo verse / back / Reivax / Franklin Square]