Past this Is used
Sacred killing shys away from the person
Who sits
Peoples kid stories remain washed up
Playing guilds everything
and for once
The evidence is I
All
Things stressed are hypothetical
Friendly little nothings
Out and proud
A crutch for my stubborn brain
Polite but down in dirt
a vision
in twilight between
sleep and
waking…two men
standing on a
corner
caps cover balding sixties
they lean together like
brothers
I know I’m
seeing the
future… two
boys
who
climb trees over
rivers kick socer
balls scrabble through
woods scuffle and hug
in my vision they
survive sixty years
and have become
old men
How did the goldfish get in the buttery-bowl
left on the table after the crabs were consumed?
I’m alone at the table while you visit the Ladies,
eavesdropping mocking words from the next booth.
Scooping out the hapless, limp fish, an aborted
rescue – only the single snail is still wriggling-live.
I wonder where you are and when this dual vacation
switched gears to singular – and what-is-the-deal
with the fish? Maybe I should check on you.
I pass the booth with the taunting cool-people,
searching past the restrooms and finding a room
with a queen-sized bed, odd for a crabshack…
You are buried in blankets with a tousled young man
and, miraculously, you are now young, too.
Speechless, I can’t see a clear message or hear
your expression. what – why…Why? No, wait.
You speak in a voice I remember in a bad dream
But you didn’t think we were together, did you?
Socked in with tropical storm Eta,
non-stop squalls for the next 24 hours.
I have the sliders open so I can hear
gushing in the gutters. Rain
blowing in, splattering the white tile.
I know how it would feel on my bare feet,
wet and cool and slick.
We’re so enveloped in this gale
it’s hard to imagine
you could fly above it.
look down on it like a distant dream.
Life ghostly-hushed today,
we’re holding our breath for what comes next,
no golfers in bright shirts,
no grounds crew on their riding mowers.
Even the birds have disappeared, except for
a few flecks of white ibis
misty on a distant mound.
Tuberculosis I
Tuberculosis is an infectious wasting disease caused by bacteria. It is also known as consumption.
Tuberculosis II
Although tuberculosis primarily affects the lungs, evidence of the disease has been seen in the spines of Egyptian mummies from 3000 BCE.
Tuberculosis III
In 1842, Dr. John Croghan opened Mammoth Cave in Kentucky to tuberculosis patients. All died, underground, by 1843.
Tuberculosis IV
Today, many strains of TB have become antibiotic resistant.
Tuberculosis V
Historical victims of tuberculosis include the poet John Keats, the Little Flower St. Thérèse, and the character Fantine from Victor Hugo’s Les Miserable.
What would I do if you walked into my work,
that sweet, shy smile on your face?
What would I do if you declared your love for me,
three decades too late?
What would I do if you finally took me out to dinner,
gave me that first kiss?
What will I do if I keep asking myself
questions like this?
What would I do if I saw on you the street?
Would I let you pass on by,
afraid of what could be?
What would I give if I could see your face again
and hear your voice?
What would you say to me?
Would I be your choice?
What would I sacrifice to have you?
What would I pay to be yours?
Why do I bruise my fists
knocking on closed, locked doors?
Why have I never met another like you?
Everyone has a doppleganger
but you.
The ex-girlfriend I thought was so special,
I’ve seen her in a hundred faces.
But why have I never met another you,
another man who makes me feel this way?
And what if I never do?
How would both our lives have changed
if I’d just had the nerve to tell you?
Do you ever think about me?
Do the menories make you smile?
If we were together,
how would we express
our love for each other?
What would your pet name for me be?
Would a lifetime be enough to
give you all my love?
When will I stop imagining
beautiful futures
we could have had?
And the hardest question is:
how do I live without you?
In lieu of school
groups of sharks
are given the
moniker shiver.
Is it for the sleek silver
bodies that ease
effortlessly
in the sea
Hunting their prey
Mating
Playing
Cavorting?
Or does it rise
from unfounded fear
from those who
know little of them?
As I swim
with them
their exquisite
movements
draw me in…
chill bumps
slither down
my arms.
