Story Teller
He was a Navaho storyteller (and part-time soak)
and always ready with a naughty novel joke
called me his brother, as together we walked
faithfully cheerful, even tho he was being stalked
by the most violent lot in Midwestern cellblocks
but unfearful we stood, back to back, hip to hip
for such was the nature of our kinship
(having simply shared far too much to be scared)
so we were rightly seen as the very best of friends
the very best of buds, as they say, to the end
but how could I know, much less comprehend
that it would end so soon, by a brutal act
in a pool of blood - just yesterday - to be exact.
Yahzee, just yesterday, I heard you call my name
and three tiers up I saw your beloved face framed
by the cell door being locked for your own safety
but later opened in error when the whole pack gained entry
-with their razors-
So now there's only this pathetic little poem as eulogy
for, Yahzee, my friend, I'm simply crying too hard to see
but now, tho alone, I will try to do better by you:
I will walk your walk
I will talk your talk
I will be the storyteller.
-Ananda T.
