Leaving dusty footprints on Texan soil,
a drifting unemployed taxi driver.
Stumbling through nights of doubt,
towards seedy lighthouses that shone brightest.
He scratched her name on napkins, in margins,
on the fogged glass of Greyhounds—
rehearsing a love that would never be more
than a monologue for his mirrors.
Believing the act would be a sentence,
six shots, one ricocheted love letter,
so that on his arrival,
history might remember him
as something other than a ghost.
Shared with dVerse Poetics: Pilgrimage and reflecting on the story of John Hinckley Jr.
Just finished reading a bit of his wiki entry. A very disturbed young man that didn’t get the (inpatient) treatment he needed. He made diligent effort and did a lot of damage. I’m sure his victims remember him as more than a ghost.
Very good writing, Shaun. May I ask you why you chose to write about him?
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