#54

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we talk of death
and the white is gone.
you say you're content with it as long as you've tied up your loose ends--
given your last bits to charity-- and
I somewhat agree.
you ask me, and I say,
I don't have much experience with it, but
I write about it often and think about it even more, not in regard to myself
but everyone else.
you mention your dear friend
and a case from a few years ago.
you felt cheated, but
then I think about how I wouldn't know you now if you'd
gone then.
almost, I want to say a quick "amen."
the sun may have a consciousness
we decide,
because who is to say it doesn't if we do,
and the birds,
and the trees,
and the cut down flowers we pulled from a box shipped over
and placed by the yellow we walk through day
in and day out
by a niece by the name of Rosanna
or Rosaline.
then we talk of God
and the red is gone.
there's a bread peddlar with a tale
that astounds the common gaze.
but your preaching isn't pushy
nor dictated by politics
and for once it seems a little more ideal than
admitting, "no,
I don't believe."
you do, and you say you'll make a few more pilgrimages in your time.
one to Africa if you're able,
another to somewhere nautical.
I consider where I might go if I did one
and what question I'd have in mind on the way.
the probably one thousand year old clock on the wall chimes behind me, the
broken one ahead of me stays quiet.
I still won't claim one way or the other
but chats over green glasses
and strange meals of fish and asparagus
are more than welcome,
even if I won't eat much more than the over
garlic-ed salad and day-old rice
and a small bowl of fruit so graciously sliced and prepared.
we later talk of Muddy Waters
and those good old, charming Chicago blues, the
twined laces of LSD and ecstasy, and
Joplin's wailing tunes.
and you and I
tell each other we'll read each other's stories when we leave
them on the stairs for one another,
as raw and messy as they are
with no malice or raging intent, we'll just
take them as they are.
we'll then have a chat again.
gone with the white,
gone with the red.
our green glasses will empty in time, and
then we'll watch a black and white show until
we turn in.
the stairs will wind, and
the paintings will become more tilted.
and I'll fall to sleep to my favorite singer's musings
about Kathy and her sweet, dear tune.
And a song I was writing is left undone
I don't know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can't believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme