Jón the Blind Man

Poem

Jón the Blind Man

I once met a blind man in a coffee shop in Springfield, Missouri. He walked a mile in the dark to get there. It was morning for me. He told me even a blind man can see that Colorado is God’s country. The rich Rocky Mountain air makes the Ozark Mountains envious, especially the sad foothills in eastern Oklahoma. He told me he once snuck out of the Boulder hospital to find beer with nothing but his nose, ended up in someone’s garage drinking expensive wine saved as an investment. He knocked over some boxes and blamed it on a bear named Norman that broke out of a poorly funded zoo a few weeks ago. He told the home owner he chased Norman off with his cane, asked for a bottle of wine for an award. The blind man said when it
snows sometimes he’ll sled down streets on trashcan tops,
 knowing he’ll probably die, but the rush is worth it. He was dropped from his life insurance policy after his third arrest; the local police department had to create a law making it illegal for blind men to sled down streets. He frequently goes hiking in the woods, gets lost, sleeps under trees, and finds his way home by listening for rivers and following them to civilization. He once made the newspaper after going missing for 30 days. He lived solely off of wild strawberries and yarrow. He told me he sees the stars 24 hours a day and when he swims he believes he’s caught in the tailwind of a falling star headed straight for the crooks in Washington DC.

Poem by Dave Darr | Photo by John Cameron
Jón the Blind Man was first published in Dark Matter Journal, Winter 2016/2017