While we are all at a point of reflection
and while the dog is howling for recognition
(or for the moon - but no one is sure)
I pee in my backyard on the fresh grass
which I remind myself, is just a weed
(because I need to feel human)
Planting seeds on the beach
down PVC pipes stuck in the sand
the whole shore looked like
a breathing graveyard of waves
The phone call. The race home.
The way your children entered the world.
The way in which we are all growing
apart, and every day the world feels more connected.
And by connected I mean smaller.
That night we played poker
in the backroom of the bookstore
you won all the money - even though
the only thing you ever had was a
wise grin across your face and ace high -
Maybe. If that. You deceptively beautiful bastard.
I guess we’ll never know.
But I know we will meet again
across a table on a train
you’ll be having a drink
and me, I think I’ll just be sitting there
wanting your drink.
Wanting to be you.
A train to no place important
where business is as usual.
A train that has no track
traveling west of some sunset.
We were both such beautiful children.
My friend, what the hell has happened?
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1 comment:
you smug sonofabibliophile
where do you get off writing me love poems from across the country?
I want them hand-delivered, bitch.
and as for this poetic bemoaning of times gone, how about some poetic prophesizing about times to come?
where's my little au-racle, huh?
who bomb them?
we bomb them?
where did they go? only we know.
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