Vox Populi
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George Drew: Shared Space
My Uncle Frank was a weird bird, everybody who knew him
knew it and kept space between him and themselves,
space he filled by talking to himself as he hustled along Main Street,
always looking down at his clodhopper-shod feet. Uncle Frank,
whenever he left the bedroom off his sister Virginia’s garage
where he spent his final years, padlocked the door.
Hanging out with the cool, hip dudes in front of the library,
I’d cross the street whenever I saw him coming our way; he’d stop
and mumble something about the weather or the Yankees’ recent game,
a sidewalk on Main Street our only shared space. When he died,
he left five hundred bucks to me, money I guess he thought I’d earned
talking to him, weird bird, right there on Main for everyone to see.
Copyright 2022 George Drew
George Drew is the author of Drumming Armageddon (Madville, 2020).
Vox Populi 
Great poem. What a kicker for an ending! All of us fear we have a bit of Uncle Frank in us, even if we hate to admit it! Especially as we age.
LikeLiked by 2 people
We all know one, don’t we?
LikeLiked by 2 people
Yes. Missed several opportunities for connection trying to be hip and cool.
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