Most ev’ry page of me
stained with loss.
Ink-pots knocked over
coffee-mug rings
footnotes in ballpoint
smudged in the margins.
I am not a manuscript
easily read
literally nor figuratively.
My dad left me when I was two
he’s not dead, or a horrible father
but how proficient can you be
in a job that takes consistent, every-day hours
from states away?
His dad left this earth,
and both of us
less than two decades later.
In my thirty one years
I’ve not gone five
without losing a life
without watching a family member die.
In one case
hearing his last breath
flow out in a sigh;
Superman hanging up his cape.
My first dog ran away
she’s dead or she’s stolen
another page in the chapter.
I built friendships
throughout elementary and middle
and lost most of ‘em
when I went cross town
for high school.
The ones in college were the same
I lost most of ‘em
when I moved home.
The ones I made after I lost
when I moved back.
A repeating theme
central to the story of me.
Every new stop
pages left behind
fluttering in the breeze
paper-thin butterfly wings.
Scars in the binding where they were torn out
on some
the writing too faded to read.
I’m not a sob story
a mournful song
a pitiable man.
Most ev’ry page of me
stained with loss.
I learned to be grateful for what I’ve had
and to recognize what I have.