The Original Mr. Sandman

Drifting along sleepy clouds of sadness that dies
with the homeless heart the conductor of dreams
sets him on track.
The train is rolling down the rails passing the
children waving with excitement.
He had a few more dreams to write, some called
him The Original Mr. Sandman.
He had dreams,  he just wanted to be a man who
could make you smile wide.
His mama told him "son you have to take care of
that itch or it'll scratch you straight into
darkness"  and his daddy spit in his face red with
shame.
He could never find a place to rest his sorrow,
just kept on going not knowing where or what he
left behind.
The train's picking up speed, passing the back
yards of America the beautiful:
Fences whiz by, skeletons of cars, a pile of
tires. Scrub oak, sumac, a scrappy dog howling,
grapevines tangled up with barbwire, a lonesome
brown shoe...
He's huddled, hugging into himself, his own
comfort and  if you're paying attention you'll
hear a familiar sound: a little boy with a stick in
his hand scraping it along a picket fence...
clickity-click clickity-clack clickity-click
He takes in a deep breath but he won't let it out.
No he's going to keep his last piece of air, hold it
until that ancient clock ticks off its last damn
mean hearted mile down the tracks into that
long and narrow black tunnel.


Carol Brown ©

This poem is about my brother Kenny.

Update: Last night October 6, 2015 at 9:30 PM -- Kenny's lifelong anguish has ended.



When Kenny was a little boy our grandpa Glaser's nickname for Kenny was Sunny.But his abusive dad beat the sun out of Kenny, replaced his shine with clouds of fear, of despair, of self hatred... Kenny ran almost his entire life but he couldn't out run his shadows of despair. Kenny I hope you've found peace...

Photograph of Kenny sitting by a lake.