Omar ImadyWinchester
I hear you calling from Winchester;
Your face is distant
And your breath is cold.
You speak of when
The grass was tall
And the Kentucky sun
Sweet to your eyes.
A Golden retriever
Raced your boots
And your scent wrapped
The native road.
And you understood it all –
How far the wind travelled
And how it unravelled,
The Mountain Saddle you rode.
And it didn’t matter,
It didn’t matter at all
How soiled you were
When you and the evening
Returned to your home.
The bath was always ready
And her sleeves
Perfectly rolled.
In her arms
You were eternal
And even your soapsuds
Rippled into gold.
I hear you calling from Winchester.