she loves the way you talk: with r's rolling off your cultured tongue like buttons from the shoemaker`s hands.
but he has not mind to reveal the truth in a language misinterpreted.
she loves the way you grin with your whole face, gold-capped tooth peeping out like a mischievous bambino.
but he has not eyes that can recognize a smile of such paradoxical sympathy.
she loves the way you have worked.
&now, she loves the way that you wait.
but he just shakes his head, &grips the wheel harder: racing to retreat to his home on the hill.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
I never really talk about you as often as you come up.
No body really asks, I suppose.
But I never inquire, either,
&so memories grow faint, but are re-drawn over &over
until your face turns in to a scribble of words, Irish Spring soap, and amateur radio.
&I am trying hard to keep at least one picture of you in my heart`s dog-eared album.
What with your English Leathered neck and hands, trips for quartered frozen treats, microwaveable pretzels, &spritzer cookies slightly burned.
Maybe I`ll cry when I ease myself in to the well-worn crackled seats of a classy 911,
or tear up if an overweight terrier greets me in the morning.
Perhaps I`ll fall in love with my children`s children,
the way you did with us.
Deep down in my heart I know that I am a coward,
&yet some how I know that when I am lingering at the edge of my driveway, for the very last time,
I know, I know, I know.
I just know that you`ll be the one there, waiting to pick me up.