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letra de saturday poem - joel dias-porter

so i’m exiting the subway at dupont circle
headed towards the huddle of chess tables
when i run into gaston neal
who’s coughing as if trying to shake something
he’s also a poet from pittsburgh
and almost the same age as my father
and like him, a former junkie and thief
he’s hip in his daishiki and black turtleneck
his beret c-cked at the coolest of angles
i say “gaston, i’ve been re-reading sterling brown”
and gaston starts telling me about
he and sterling getting drunk togethеr
his sandpaper voice more raspy than usual
but now gaston’s hands arе conducting the conversation
and i can forget about playing any chess
but i’ve already heard that story
and about gaston being locked up in ezra pound’s
old room at st. elizabeth’s hospital
and coltrane driving gaston to the hospital
after a fight behind the crawford grill
and gaston rapping to langston hughes on the phone
at owen dodson’s house in a thunderstorm
so i say my mother saw august wilson on tv
now gaston says “one day, me and rob penney
were hanging in front of eddie’s restaurant. ya dig?
august had just quit high school to become a poet
and was inside writing and peeped us
and came to ask us to let him hang, because
we were the hippest cats in the hill district
and poets besides”. and i know the restaurant
because it’s where i go to find my father
every time i return to town
he says “man, august bugged us so much, finally
we said “ok, you can hang with us, tomorrow
and august lit up like a fresh cigarette”
“the next day, we roll up to eddie’s
and august is waiting in a tweed sports coat
with elbow patches, a pipe between his t–th
when we saw him, we fell down laughing.”
gaston starts laughing, then coughs again
i ask “what’s the latest from the doctor?
but he doesn’t answer, just hacks and coughs
his scarred hands, which have pushed both
pens and needles, are suddenly silent
knowing malignant cells zip through his arteries
swiftly as cars around this circle
he glances at his watch and says he has to go
the evening sun glows on the horizon
like the tip of a cigarette about to burn out
and we hug for a few beats longer than usual
and for those few beats to a driver waiting
at the traffic light, the two of us could be
a father and son, saying h-llo, or goodbye

- joel dias porter

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