Sunday, July 31, 2011


TEA LIKE  RIVER WATER

by Roger R. Angle


        I stir my tea now, and I am near
        73 years old, and I scoop up
        the swirling tea and it is the
        color of the Ninnescah River
        when I was a child. It is
        foolish now to remember my
        childhood so long ago.  
        I remember the water
        in the river by the
        cabin that is probably
        no longer there. I remember
        the sand and the trees like
        a jungle I ran through in my
        heavy boots. I remember
        they laced up high,
        I felt secure and strong
        in them. I would run through
        the jungle and climb the hill
        and run with the rabbits
        in the farmer’s field. I
        remember one time after
        a fire running through the
        stubble and the blackened
        earth and the black dust
        rising up, but I don’t
        run any more. I am
        about to be 73 next
        week, older than my father
        ever lived to be. He died at
        72 in a small apartment, shacked
        up with an 18-year-old girl. I
        met her once when they took me to
        lunch. He bought a Cadillac and
        a beautiful boat, a wooden
        Chris Craft, things he always
        wanted. Poor man, I feel sorry
        for him now. Too many years
        married to my angry mother,
        a nightmare for him
        and for me, too. Now
        I drink my tea and am
        glad to be living longer than he
        lived and happy I am not he,
        or anything like
        he used to be.  

July 28, 2011
Culver City, CA

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© Copyright 2011, Roger R. Angle



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