Man-Talk

"love you" he said

over wires stretched under the Atlantic

[on 10 cent Sunday to Germany

and most of Western Europe]

 

the slip --

he was somewhere absently offering farewell to

his wife/dad/son --

 

nonetheless stuffed the pause

with awkwardness.

 

"I know" I sent - smirk almost visible

to relieve the moment.

then quick --

"I'll have Kan call Tammy next week"

"yeah - later"

 

still savoring my best-friend's embarrassment

(wondering if he would tell his wife)

(I just told Mark I loved him)

(what, is he dying?)

I was warmed

that I had fit, even if by accident

into that inmost list --

the feeling reciprocated

if never said

and covered by mirth.

**

I don't remember when I wrote this poem exactly - probably 2004 or so. It was based on a real moment. 

how it begins, again

I was not expecting to see you here

my old friend.
I thought perhaps the dog from my childhood,
and my parents, of course,
but you have been gone so long - 
it's not that I stopped thinking of you -
but you had faded some with time and distance -
which are really the same thing.

You are wearing your red shirt - 
it's the one I remember you in 
when I thought of you
after.

I see - this is why you wear it - 
and that's a kindness. 

We are walking in the woods 
here, after the end of the world - 
hands in our pockets -  
as we once did. 
It's fall
and the oaks are turning red 
like your shirt. 

It's good you are here - 
and this 
is how it begins again.

Us who are lucky

How many miles I would have walked
had I known
this was coming -

how many paths with grass
dripping morning dew
on my socks with each step,
the sun just over the tree line - 

or a rock strewn trail winding up
through cramped pines 
to catch a glimpse, at the summit
of other peaks gathered 'round like neighbors -

how, you ask, did I not know
age was coming -
it comes for all of us
who are lucky.

I am only a fool

 

The days I feel I am a fool, it is as if

I am dressed in a billowy canary jumper

dotted with a rouge of polka dots

and a foam ball on my nose.

With floppy ketchup shoes and French fry laces

I waddle about

trying to say serious things that come out like

"Life is short, call your mother!"

"You are what you do, not what you say you'll do!"

and the eyes settle on me

unwavering

for a moment

and then they laugh.

I am earnest in all things

on these days

but when the big daisy on my lapel

squirts them in the eye,

I'm just not taken seriously -

but this is me.

Just me. 

Gluttony

Mac sauce in the corner of your mouth,

crumbs in your moustache,
hours of porn on your phone - 
eating and fornicating 
like a bloated rat on a satin pillow - 
you want to swallow up all that is beautiful -
and even all that is not.

With each bite the gullet grows -
the sin is in the ratio -
nothing created, only consumed.

banishment

From the Seven, Envy is my sin
I would banish first -

They are always behind all the others - 

always wanting, seething, moaning -

I would catch them by the ear

and drag them with boots scuffing

to the high city wall of my soul

and hurl them from the parapet

as they wailed about

inequity and injustice.

the path between worlds

Will you follow me on this path

between worlds?

I gesture to where the grass has been worn down

by the feet of generations.

You say, it's just the trail behind the school - 

it comes out by the plaza with the pizza shop 

and the liquor store where the kids try to shoplift booze

if they can't con someone into buying it for them -

Not now, I say, not at this moment, I say,

as the sun retreats leaving the last gentle gold

of a summer day drifting along the horizon

You take my hand and we step past the crushed soda bottle

as if it were a guardian

and we pass into the darkening wood -

you look back for a moment and feel  

the trees close behind us -

we walk and become aware - 

the sound of tires and doors and shouts faded away

while we were not listening -

you draw a bit closer

and I say, it's going to be ok

even as the branches come close

It's too dark - I can't see you, you say -

it's cold.

and now we stand still and I close my eyes,

breathing in mud from the last storm,

mulched leaves, and the fresh growth -

This is what was needed - 

it's not dark, I say -

see now the faerie lights - look through my eyes -

and you see it too - 

dim, but enough that we step toward a clearing -

it's not cold - feel with my hands the radiating fire

and I hold out my hands to the center of things

and you do as well -

now you are telling me about the magic - 

all around us the holly draped and woven with the ivy -

we see it together, hands likewise held.