Our neighbor was an old man named George. He was a veteran of a great war. I remember one night he was standing in our doorway and my parents were helping him. He was shaking, and his hands were bleeding. He seemed lost and scared. I guess he had fallen down in the back alley and couldn’t find his glasses. My Dad had found him, crawling around in the dark on his hands and knees.
It stuck with me and I wrote a poem about it a few years later. The summer that the homecoming king shot himself in the head. The only part I remember is…
back alley superman
lost in the night
hands to blind to see
I wrote another one about a pony, but it kinda sucked.
