Harry,
always in a room without windows
a straw up his nose
a bottle of Jack Daniels
on the moveable food tray.
Harry, he
lived his life like a hurricane
violent and fierce yet
beautiful
in the havac he caused
the lone wolf,
never a destination
all he owned was time
Harry,
lived,
the neon sky, dark,
afire with visions
of the wounded women
partially wrapped in night, hears
the song the sirens sweetly sing
so he chose to fly
soar
above the high wire trapeze,
grasping for tranquility with a straw
and with ease
he follows the shadows
into rooms without windows
a solitary wanderer in the heartland
the man who chose to fly
strange fish, my friend,
Harry.
I salute you.