He lost a few important words
during the short walk from
a beer to the apartment door,
his coat buttoned halfway up,
shoelaces slapping the sidewalk.

As he paused to examine the yellow buds
on a bush in front of the church,
a buzzing street light found him,
a bee attracted to the scent
of forsythia at midnight.

He wondered about the pigeons
sleeping on those dirty ledges
beneath the railroad bridge,
trains sparking overhead. 

© By Bob Rixon
Stuttering 9-1-1