I’ve been missing you
by a quarter of a mile
in all directions.
I blame the wind
or the rain,
but never your speed.
I call out
without expecting reply
and take comfort in
the echo of myself.
It is better if
I don’t know
you are there,
an inch out of range,
a moment out of site.
It is better
I keep missing you.
“Missing you” is previously published in the collection A Scattering of Imperfections (2009) by Casa de Snapdragon.
now just two people
who cameo each other’s lives.
Little in common between
the two of us these days.
You are still the artist,
ever drawing the pictures
from the webbing in your mind.
You teach now and sell work on line,
occasionally making a charitable donation
to those victimized by mother nature’s glance.
I am still a writer
and I still scrawl poetry
on bath walls and alley ways.
People have never paid for my verse,
but that never stopped me.
I make my living listening to sad stories
behind the desk of a doctor’s office.
I am simple; I am satisfied.
You didn’t mention her once
in the sixteen hours we spent together,
and I didn’t ask. That is not why we met
at that hotel room, halfway between my
New Mexican sky and your New Orleans night.
We fumbled, despite familiarity
and found ourselves in bed eager for
the intimacy we shared one summer four years ago,
eager for the comfort of a friend.
I awoke not to your terrible dreams,
but to you sitting up in bed,
sketching my still form.
Upon my movements,
you kissed me still and we made love again,
eager in the hours of the morning.
You awoke not to my impatient concern
but to the sound of me writing
and kissed my shoulder blades until I slipped back
to your side.
Our time was small,
secure and entirely necessary.
“Halfway” is previously published in Bombfire Literary Magazine (2021).
I was dreaming about a poem,
illusive to the page,
narrow columns featuring
my fancy script and
Words I am sure I
have written before
but never had the chance
to share. Words I thought
I knew by heart.
You were there too,
but not as much
the you I knew
as a picture I have
stuck in my mind.
You were sitting on the
stairs in the narrow space
between your body and ground.
With each move I took to surpass you,
you lowered yourself more
until you were over me,
and despite the rain,
and the hood over your head,
I knew you and smiled
at clandestine luck.
I kissed you, full mouth,
wondering if anyone would notice
the static spark from my lips
I thought I would remember the poem.
I thought I would be able to write it
upon waking but it slipped away from me
like so many cursed words and key phrases,
like memories I forgot to write down,
like walking passed a possible lover.
“A Poem” is previously published in Spillwords (2022).
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