The Panama Kid Poem by Seamus O' Brian
The Panama Kid
The Panama Kid rode out of sight
Shaking the dust of our lives
From his boots.
At the edge of the town this little boy stood,
Sifting a fistful of sand through his upturned hands.
And watching it blow away, blow away
In the tumbleweed wind.
The empty streets tense-
Wordless accusations.
Heavy the silence of the false-front shops;
Shadow faces glimpsed behind elaborate facades,
Familiar strangers all.
Five blank faces like a poorly dealt hand
Stare at one another in tired resignation.
A single thought in common—
The unspoken question—
When he got up from the table, turned his back
Upon the game,
When he folded on the table this unwanted hand,
When the swinging doors echoed
In the coolness of the night—
Was there discord in his heart,
Was there trouble in his eyes?
One legged crow on a sagging steeple calls
"Gone…gone, " in the tumbleweed wind.
And the Panama Kid rode out of sight
Shaking the dust of our lives
From his boots.
A little boy stands at the edge of town
Tumbleweed freed by the roots.
Thirty years later I stand at the side
Of the Panama Kid, and I look into his eyes
I see the pain of all these years carved into the lines
I hear the discord of his heart stumble from his lips
I hear the whisper of the wind blowing in the holes
'Gone....gone....'
Whispers the wind through the five holes left
By the unforgotten hand dealt to the heart
of the Panama Kid, whose trembling lips
Mutter 'Gone...gone...'
And the dust of our lives swirl away
together
In the fading whisper of the tumbleweed wind.
After 3 decades, the mystery of his abandonment would be revealed as a ploy of demagoguery to protect the unsuspecting children from the influence of the father.
We can regret the pain that life thrusts upon us, but we cannot deny that it shapes the crucible which in turn shapes our own identity.
The Panama Kid rode out of town, and a little boy grew up to become a poet so that the pain could trickle out of his heart word by word, line by line.
The first part of this poem I wrote almost 20 years ago, and it is awkward and clunky. I have tinkered with it, but I cannot bring myself to do any major editing because it represents my raw emotion.
The last few stanzas were written recently, after I came face to face with the Panama Kid after 30 years. (See 'Like Mine' which came from this event) .
Very enjoyable poem, Neil. A ten for sure. So, did your father go to Panama when he disappeared? I will read your other poem, 'Like Mine'.
well...not quite so exotic. He was known for wearing a Panama hat, so the locals called him Panama Kid He didn't quite ride off either. But he did take a job to captain a Vietnamese fishing boat across the Gulf of Mexico, but the boat sank off of New Orleans. He went ashore there, got a job doing contract drywall for Holiday Inn, and was moved out to Vegas. He fell in love with the desert, and became a lonely prospector working his way through the great basin. I learned all this when I finally caught up with him 30 years later.
Neal, Great poem, Raw and full of Emotion! ! ! A definite 10.
Thank you, and I so appreciate you taking the time to read and comment. It means much to me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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7/29/2025 11:19:30 AM # 1.0.0
Neil, I tried to read 'Like Mine but could not find it listed. Then by going to your stats I did find it but when I tried to read it I only got the first few lines, which means that you have it deactivated. Like Mine I saw my hands the other day on another man. Gripping his elbows ...................... ...................... read more ]] (When you click on the 'read more' it sends you to the PH home page.)
Sorry for the wild goose chase, Kim, and thanks again for taking the time to read and comment. I deactivated that one (and forgot I did) because I submitted it for publication to some journal that insisted that the work not exist anywhere else on line. I'm still waiting for response..... anyway, here's the rest.... Like Mine I saw my hands the other day on another man. Gripping his elbows unconsciously self-protecting. Like my hands do. Fingers like mine slender, not fine but freckled, like mine. Hands that tilled the earth, milked the cows, patted my head- perhaps. Hands that baited the hooks gutted the fish, handled the crabs with no fear of pinchers, whatsoever. Opened unopenable jars unwrenchable nuts unworkable whatsits. Hands that held my mother’s face before love became a memory. Before my head was unpatted my shoulders unsqueezed. My life unguarded. Before the days of unconscious self-protection.