A crescent moon sets behind a hill in the starry still-black west, the birth of a rose glow rims an eastern ridge, and in the twilight between flows a quiet river that shimmers the same cobalt blue as the zenith. Through the willows on the bank slip two man-shaped shadows, tall, narrow, silent.

Several days later the Greenfield Weekly Herald carries an article on page three with the headline Homeless Man Found Dead On Riverbank. The story states that an anonymous hitch-hiker spied the body from the Highway 9 bridge. “The unidentified dead man was naked, but clothes and other supplies were found in a makeshift shelter under the bridge. The coroner determined that no foul play was involved. The man had apparently succumbed to a heart attack in the early morning hours. The Sheriff’s Department is attempting to determine his identity and next of kin.”

A week passes and the Herald prints a follow-up story: Deceased Man Identified, Friend Questioned. “The man whose lifeless body was found on June 2 has been identified as Wakefern Winkowski, age 34, of Malvern County. He is survived by a daughter, age 7. His remains have been released to his former wife, Esther Winkowski, of Queens, NY.”

The story goes on at some length. “In searching the area around the bridge, sheriff’s deputies found another man, apparently in hiding. According to a Sheriff’s Office spokesperson, the man refused to speak for several hours but eventually stated that he was Winkowski’s friend and traveling companion. He identified himself as Dewey Bustle, but could produce nothing to confirm his identity, nor could he provide a former address or the name of a relative or friend. An assessment by a mental health professional determined that Bustle was of reduced capacity, so he was remanded to state care and lodged in the Valley View Adult Rehabilitation facility.”

“The Sheriff’s Office spokesperson went on with additional details. Of some initial interest to the investigation was Bustle’s claim that he had witnessed two men dressed in black, who pointed their fingers at Winkowski and, to quote Bustle, ‘made him dead.’ Bustle claimed to have overheard their conversation as they searched Winkowski’s clothes and campsite in search of something called a ‘bio-shard.’ He spelled the word, yet claimed he did not know to what it referred. He did not recognize the men nor did he see or hear a vehicle. ‘Then they gave up and went away,’ he told officers, and would not say more. After an exhaustive search, investigators could find no evidence of the truth of Bustle’s statement, attributing it to ‘grief and imagination.’ The case is now closed.”

Three months later the offices of the Greenfield Weekly Herald burn to the ground. All archives are lost. 

No matter. The quiet river still flows moonlit and sun-dappled between its willowy banks, under the bridge and on toward the sea.

*

The month was October, the day brilliant. Bareheaded, bald too young but well-bearded, a man not long past his youth strode along Bleecker, his comfortable shoes belying the business-like focus of his venture. His water-flow way of dodging fellow walkers was well-practiced, a city-dweller's skill used even as he hunted. This was his third time searching for a certain elusive individual rumored to set up shop here on occasion, and it proved the adage. There on the sidewalk, his quarry was found.

An older man, thin of face, grizzled gray on skull and chin, sat on a stubby stool, his back against brick. 

His clothes were clean but threadbare. In front of him was a small A-frame sign that said: Get a personal poem. Written by me for you. $5. The walking man stopped. He sat down on the sidewalk next to the poet and looked up at him. 

“Interesting business,” he said. The man on the stool nodded and said nothing. He held a spiral notepad on his knee, with a pen at the ready. For a full minute they sat in silence, watching the passersby. 

“What’s your name?” asked the younger man.

“Dewey,” said the man on the stool. Again they sat in silence.

“Want a poem?” Dewey said.

“Sure, but I’d like to talk with you first…,” the younger man said. “Have you always been a poet?”

“No. Only after Fern went away.”

“Who’s Fern, your wife?”

“Ha! No way. Fern was my friend. He’s gone forever.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. My condolences….” 

For a time they watched the people and cars passing by. 

“How did you become a poet?”

“By writing poems.”

“Ah, of course. Did Fern teach you about writing poetry?”

“No. Fern was not a poet. He was a philosopher.”

“How did he die?”

“Bad men. Not real men.”

“When did it happen?”

A silent shrug.

“A long time ago?”

“Yes…. Would you like your poem now?”

“In a minute. Do you ever keep a copy of the poems you write?”

“No, the poem is not for me, it’s for you.”

“Do people ever come back for another poem?”

“Oh, sure. Those are my regga-lers.”

“Do you live nearby?”

“A few blocks. Three or five.... So would you like your poem now?”

“Okay, sure.”

“What’s your name?”

“Brian.”

Dewey carefully printed those five letters, then underlined the word. He stared at Brian for a moment, then turned back to his pad and began the slow, painstaking labor of creation, printing in block letters, one word at a time. After several, he paused, eyed Brian again for a long still moment as the bustle of Bleecker Street swirled past them, then he turned back to the page and wrote several more words, his tongue peeking from his lips as he concentrated. This happened three more times. Brian sat, his curiosity tamed by patience.

Finally Dewey let out a sigh, ripped the page from his notebook, and handed it to Brian.

“If you don’t like it, it’s free.”

“Thank you,” Brian said. Silently, he read the words on the page.

Brian

An underground river

turgid and whispering

secret artery of a continent

carries in darkness the funeral boat

ever-burning

of an exiled king. 

How is it that the water 

flows forever 

toward a bright portal and

cascades over cliffs

to the sunlit sea

but the blazing ship never arrives?

He read it again, and a third time. So rare, the surpassing of expectations! His face gave no sign of his astonishment.

“Well…this is really good, Dewey. If I pay you another five dollars, can I sit here with you until one of your regulars comes by?”

“Sure.”

Minutes passed. They both seemed absorbed in watching the to and fro of humans on foot and in machines, traversing the skin of pavement that covered the once-fertile earth of this monstrous island, under an azure sky uncommonly unsullied by sinister chemistry.

Brian said, “I’d love to know more about Fern.”

Dewey said, “I lied.”

“You mean there is no Fern?”

“No. Yes. I mean, I lied to Fern.”

“About what?” 

“I told him I threw it away.”

“Threw what away?”

“This.” 

He reached in his pocket and pulled out what looked to Brian like a blackened twig. Dewey handed it to him and as he looked closer he saw a fingernail and knuckles. His skin prickled; his stomach rolled. Then he realized: this was not human, but simian. A mummified monkey finger. The revulsion ebbed, a little. He handed it back to Dewey.

“I don’t really understand,” he said.

Dewey said, “I lied and then the bad things came. It’s my fault.”

“Why did the men hurt Fern?”

“Not real men.”

“Why did they hurt Fern?”

“Because they’re bad.”

Brian closed that line of questioning; nothing was revealed. Then Dewey said, “They’re coming to get me too.”

Paranoia in addition to his, what…autism? Savantism? His life can’t be easy, Brian thought. Aloud, he said, “Well, I hope they don’t.”

Time flowed. The crowds of a lovely autumn Saturday in twenty-first-century America streamed by without pause. Two young women, dressed Bohemian style, passed. The taller one looked at Dewey then stopped her friend and they turned back.

“Five dollars for an original poem?” the tall one said. 

Dewey said, “A poem for you.”

“But who’s the poet?”

“Me.”

“You mean you’re gonna write it right now? And it’s not just memorized from a book?”

“I don’t read poems, I write poems. And if you don’t like it, it’s free.”

The shorter girl stayed silent. The tall one said, “Sounds like a deal.” She opened her fringed bag and pulled out a five dollar bill.

“What’s your name?” Dewey said.

“Larissa.” As he began to print, she spelled, “L-a-r-i-s-s-a.”

He repeated the same process he had followed with Brian: look, print, look, print.

She watched with fascination. Her friend began to fidget.

At last Dewey sighed, ripped out the notebook page, and handed it to her. As she read, her eyes widened. She turned to her friend. “You should get one of these.” Her friend looked embarrassed. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s really cool.”

“I don’t know anything about poetry.”

“Here, I’ll pay for it,” Larissa said. She pulled out another five.

Dewey took the bill and prepared himself to write. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Monica.”

Dewey went through his routine as Larissa stared with an expectant smile and Monica shifted from foot to foot, worried.

When Monica took the page from Dewey, Larissa stood close and read it over her shoulder. She said, “It’s great!”

Monica smiled and nodded. “I like it!” To Larissa she said, “I’ll pay you back.” And to Dewey: “Thank you, sir.”

The pair turned and continued on their way, pages in hand. They nudged each other and giggled as they walked, happy chattering conspirators.

After a minute, Brian said to Dewey, “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” He got up and followed the two young women, catching sight of them in the next block.

“Larissa!” he called. They stopped and turned. Larissa frowned.

As Brian approached he held up his hand, a peace gesture. “Sorry, I just saw that guy write your poems, and I wonder if I can talk to you for a moment.”

Monica said, “Uh-oh, what now.”

Larissa said, “This better not be a scam.”

He said, “No, he wrote a poem for me too, and I think he’s very good. Would you be willing to let me read yours?”

Larissa responded immediately, “No.” Monica’s head wagged side to side.

Brian said, “Okay, I understand.” He pulled two business cards from his wallet and handed them to the girls. “I have a very small publishing company, literary stuff. I’m curious—would either of you buy a book of poetry by this guy?”

The suspicious look on Larissa’s face lifted and she said, “I would. Just based on these two poems I’ve seen, I think he’s a good poet. Really. I’m an English Lit major at NYU and I was just thinking about showing this to one of my professors, seeing what he thinks.”

When Brian looked at Monica, she shrugged and said, “Maybe…maybe I would.”

“Okay, well…I’m not going to ask you for anything. I just want you to keep my card and give it some thought. What I hope to do is find other people he’s written poems for, and see if I can gather a collection. At least a chapbook, maybe more. If you think that’s a worthy cause, please get in touch with me. Thank you.”

Brian turned and strode back. But when he arrived at Dewey’s station, no one was there.

*

Fern Violet Winkowski, PhD, MSW, Director of the New Horizons Adult Group Home at 210 Sullivan Street, daughter of Wakefern and Esther Winkowski of Queens, NY, both deceased, was at her desk attempting to finish a very late lunch, a small bodega salad with bleu cheese and croutons, when she was notified by her assistant that a resident was missing. Not just any resident; this was Dewey Bustle, with whom she had had a close friendship, even an age-inverse maternal relationship, for over a decade. Dewey had failed to return from his usual outing. 

On Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday afternoons for three years, weather permitting, Dewey had carried his stool, sign, and notebook to Bleecker Street, taken a random position somewhere between Sixth Avenue and LaGuardia Place, and offered his poems to passing strangers. He did not have a permit for sidewalk commerce, but up until now, neither merchants nor police had bothered him. She worried: had his run of luck ended? Or was this something worse? 

Within a stab of fear, past co-exists with present. Fern had grown to love Dewey, ever since she’d gone hours west to find him in a rural custodial facility and brought him here, under her own care. She was grateful to work in the heart of the venerable Village where across generations many masterpieces had been missed and made, where politics and heart once entwined together, where a pulse of divine invention animated the very stones.

Her genius was as a listener. With her head tilted forward the perfect inch so a sweep of dark hair swung free to brush her chin, and with her grey eyes in an open gaze from the gently inquisitive side of interrogative—an answer was expected but not demanded—she could get even the silent Dewey to speak. Several evenings a week she had sat with him as he told her his thoughts, at first all about her father, whose name she bore, because that’s what she asked for. He spoke of his burden of guilt, and showed her the revolting little talisman in his pocket. She saw the huge sadness in his eyes and it birthed in her a warm surge of inexplicable caring for this strange little man. She did her best to reassure him: her father’s death was not his fault. 

In the warm slant of window sunshine on summer evenings or when the early dark of winter meant blue shades and lamplight, they sat together in her office, relaxed on the sofa. Fern had an old cassette machine and she would place it between them, depress the buttons to record, then let Dewey ramble. The cassettes now filled a whole shelf in her office. Once he’d exhausted his supply of Wakefern memories, he went on to talk about his daydreams, his night dreams, his observations and speculations and insights. Simple fragments, then…sudden multisyllables. Where did this surprise vocabulary come from? As far as she knew, he never read anything. At times his mispronunciations were sweetly comical. “Antedilubian,” he said, and “mootation.” His monologues were looping, halting, repetitive, nonsensical, lyrical, funny and wild. There might be a long silence followed by a rapid list uttered in rhythm. Occasional glossolalic gibberish; now and then sophisticated rhymes in iambic pentameter. Sometimes his small thin fingers traced intricate figures in the air as he spoke. 

Gradually, across many months, a thread of sense had begun to emerge. Was she imagining this? When she asked him about it, he looked at her for a long beat. 

“Of course. I’m telling you the story of the world.”

Primeval earth. Monkeys, apes, bonobos, chimps. Godlike interdimensional travelers. Gene splicing; a new race. Eons of time. Civilization born of chaos. Machines invented and ever-improved. More centuries. Machine overlords, and the systematic eradication of all primate biology, human or other.

But even a machine world is not perfect. Accidents happen. Scraps get lost across time and space. A clean-up crew must be sent, a search-and-destroy mission.

At last, one day, she had to ask: “Dewey, this sounds like the plot of a science fiction novel. Are you writing a book?”

“I don’t write books, I write poems.”

“Well, you make up some good stories.”

“Not made up. I don’t tell lies anymore, ever. I tell history. But there’s no such thing as history.”

“What do you mean?

“It’s all together, at the same time. There is only one time and place.”

“Can you explain that?”

“No.”

“Please try.”

He stared at the floor for a moment, scratching the gray stubble on his chin. 

“Well…see, the river flows…it’s the River Möbius and it flows past and then it twists up and around and it turns into the blue steel bridge that crosses itself.” His hands weaved a dual figure eight. “Now it’s Highway 9, and then it twists back down and around to become the river again, flowing under itself. See?”

Fern nodded as she worked to form the image in her mind.

He continued, “So…here we are, you and me…along with everybody else in the whole world, now or ever before or ever after, here in the city under the sky. But the sky is really the beautiful bridge, the vaulted blue steel of our one and only bridge.”

“The bridge where you lived with my father.”

“Of course. The bridge at the center of everything.”

*

Brian went back to Bleecker the next afternoon, then twice more during the following week, but there was no sign of Dewey. He went into the little t-shirt shop whose entrance was near where Dewey had been sitting, and asked the two young men working there if they knew anything about him. They didn’t. “We see him here sometimes, but we’re not that into poetry.” They laughed.

On Friday morning he got a call in his office. It was Larissa. Yes, she and Monica would be willing to give him their poems to be included in the book. She had shown them to her professor, who urged her to get involved in the publishing project. Brian said, “That’s great, but I haven’t been able to find Dewey since that day. Can you keep an eye out for him as you’re moving around the Village?”

She said yes. But she did more than that. She and Monica strolled back and forth on Bleecker, taking turns holding a big sign that said Where is Dewey the Poet? That’s how they met Fern, Dr. Winkowski, who was also looking for Dewey. But for Fern, it was a sad search, another in a futile series. She had reported Dewey’s absence to the police a week ago, when he went missing, and she and her staff had scoured the Village streets. Within hours they found his stool and sign and notebook and pen, lying in the gutter across from what was once the Gaslight Café on MacDougal. 

But of Dewey himself there was no sign—not then, nor ever.

Eventually, a slim, attractive volume was published by Brian’s company: No Visible Means: Street Poems by Dewey Bustle. The book sold well in the neighborhood for some years, then faded into obscurity. Of course, it contained Brian’s single poem, and Larissa’s and Monica’s. Strangers had responded to the call, many with just one Dewey-penned verse, and for “regulars” there were several pages each, one poem per page, headlined with a name and a number. There were seven called “Violet” that Dewey had composed for her over the years, refusing the name Fern to anyone but the first. The volume ended with this short piece:

Violet 7

There is one in whom

Communion with the unnameable wellspring

Lives beyond mind

Past language

Unspoken in both thought and voice

—prayer embodied.

You will know the mother

By her gait

By her angle of wrist

By the repose of her helping.

Learning is easy:

Observe the movements of the fatherless queen.

*

What is the point of this convoluted, hardly believable tale? It may have nothing to do with Dewey’s link to unknown sources, his vision of curving infinities, of pasts and futures, or his own role in the way a world’s utter destruction can spring from the tiniest of seeds, “for want of a nail….”

On the sprawling, inscrutable gameboard of existence, dooms may be interchangeable, sometimes delayed by chance detours, always eventually arriving…but perhaps the same is true of beginnings, of births and rebirths, in a vast, star-speckled turning. 

Maybe the small and the lost, the flawed humans pitiably striving toward light through the slow blink of a life, find some certainty in their hidden hearts that the only things surely worth having in this world are the ties that bind them to each other. 

But this tale may not mean any of that at all.

For Brian and Fern, simply, it is the story that launched their future together—their long happy lives, their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. 

For everyone else, perhaps it is entirely meaningless.

 

© Brent Robison 2025

This is an excerpt from a longer story of the same name by Brent Robison.