My Greatuncle Bert

My Greatuncle Bert

Almost every morning he left
dressed in old tweeds, cap, heavy
walking stick. He held his head
up, strolled down the dirt road,
stopped my the grocery store, selected
his box of long tubed Russian cigarettes

put them on the tab for his nephew
to pay for later, stalked off to the
Sundown Saloon where, very carefully,

he savored one shot glass of whiskey
after another, talking easily
of the money he had once had (true)

and of his adventures (mostly true)
his lean, grizzled face sagging slightly
as the country men politely moved away

leaving him to the terrible solitude
of the drunk, his lips still moving
over the words that shaped the stories

no one there or in the whole village
could either understand or listen to.
One night he fell, we found him

within the morning of a winter's sun
his blood on the rock doorstop, the high
blue of his eyes, fainter then,
his slender long fingers, heavily
nicotine stained but well-groomed
stretching out toward our closed door.


Keith Wilson