late at night, after watching the game,
after reading the shipwreck novel
before studying Doctor Warren’s poem,
the old man sits in the chair, his chair,
remembering the dragon that
ravaged Warren’s world a generation
before he, himself, wandered into this world,
a war baby they said before
the sociologists began to nickname the generations;
he remembered the dark of the deeply spiritual woods
where cedars and oaks and maples and hickories
hid the beasts, even Warren’s dragon
that brought destruction and fear,
mostly fear, even if it did not exist,
but made the unknown bestial, violent tragedies believable.
sitting in his chair in his plastic world
where money is no longer what is earned;
comfort, ease, and that money are more desired
than fear of dragons,
he rubbed the cover of the poetry book
with his fingers of both hands,
rough and veined from the sea and age;
he closed and opened his eyes while taking deep breaths
trying to remember
his dragon and the woods.