I awoke from my unrest
much like a broken jack-in-the-box,
tucked away in your treasure chest,
yearning for some comforting discomfort
then wandering empty schoolyards
where we had settled on being unsettling,
where we shook ourselves back to dreaming,
long before distant arm waves,
less fatal practice runs and
personalized condolence cards.
Let me inhale your shadow and quietly tap some lost relay
as the private eye you hired to put it all away
your favorite jersey,
your leather gloves,
your sacred vinyl,
and your cryptic sigh,
to meditate on some future tense
transmitting the mantra
of that rhetorical why
as if this is the poetry of plunder,
not recompense.
It is time to gather up
the discarded roadmaps
the crumpled rosters of missing names
the canceled reservations
made into spit wads and paper airplanes
to build a bonfire at sunset
for exposed hands, face and feet
you leaning again on my shoulder
to finally torch my indulgence,
your warmth, a quiet benediction
from the ashes of self-conceit.
But what to make of the empty bottles,
half-filled with nicotine and nuance,
or the snapshots of suitors make-believe,
as if we could at least reschedule
your inevitable departure,
or the next unauthorized leave,
to redirect your solitary nakedness,
slipping tenderly into forgiveness,
for not returning your final distress call,
for taking years to find you a light
until you spin around,
handsome, dark and tall,
a fading grin
a last right
backing feverishly
into the blackness.
Too sad, too true.
Really beautiful. One of your best. I wish I would have known Eric.