Broken Dreams...

i watch him when he
arrives home, bringing his
baby
armalite and a pack of
dirty clothes and a notebook
(is he listing those that owe
him or those
that he plans to see
again
after 20 years of having to
spend his life
among the natives
in the far away
mountains?)

he leaves his boots
at the doorway
combs his hair
and wipes his sweat
still clinging
to his long beard
(with white
locks)

he looks for mother
(specifically now the available
matter is only the picture
for she had long been
dead
missing him
the void within her heart)

'mother had long
been gone', sister told him,

he heaves a sigh
and breathes some more
i suspect he
may cry, but i know, i know
as he is, and really is,

he couldn't

there are other reasons
for tears to fall
not this one, not this one.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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