I am the last goodbye we never had
the first glance you take of a painting
the moment you fall asleep,
and the number of crickets outside your window.
The room of dusty posters and open drawers looked almost pretty
in the morning sun reaching through the holes in the drapes.
Long unfinished cigarettes grew out of wooden ashtrays
(for Arnie)
We sat reclinedBony knees escaping from beige shorts knocking against each otherFit for a sticky summer night.Your position momentarily disruptedBy the allure of a bowl of peanuts.You leaned forward, reaching outFor the glass dish.Thin spotted legsCaught my…
If we are quieter
than the many hidden clocks,
if tonight we can talk slower
than the song playing at nine-o-clock,
ten-o-clock somewhere, we will be ok.
days feel like chapters
I. sit deep
and so comes the draft
the section speaks
on
more than what’s happening
that rolls with me,
follows me and my relationship with the broken bench in my front yard.
It asks too many questions.
momsdad’s feet on uncle’s floor
are smooth-cold
puckering against skin still
slick with early morning.
peace be with those bloodless dream-fears