Old Mister Willis
isn’t quite right,
walks rainy streets
alone at night,
talking to angels
and demons and such,
he laughs and cries
and feels too much.
Listens to old 45s
still spinning inside his head
calls out loud
to lost loves now dead.
Hasn’t turned to Jesus
since 1982,
trusts voices only he can hear
to tell him what to do.
Never thinks to comb his hair,
shave his beard, or tie his shoes,
doesn’t know the price he paid
was never his to have or lose.

Words by Ron Willis
Photography by Irena Mila

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