How
Much Louder
How much louder can the spikes and
mountain peaks speak? They are not pleasant
echoes,
but syringes filled with yesterday’s aches
reflected off days of clotting rain.
It must sound like self-pity, these constant
allusions to pain.
And so it is, and so I wish it was not.
A lonesome soul, I stare blankly at leaves on
trees
turning yellow
with rain dripping like medicine from
each of them.
I miss the stage, the proscenium,
the rehearsals, the work days,
the torn curtain and the costumed relics
of shows no one remembers. I miss the
ensemble when running cues was better
than any cast party.
A lonesome soul, I wander toward the past
half a century ago and find it takes microseconds.
There is no replacement for the threads that
bind us without time. Yet my body remains
a monologue without an audience.
I would write you another letter, another longshot
that inks my heart once again. I would remind you, though
dizzily scratching the surface, I am friend, same now,
as then.
I miss the potlucks, the rainy picnics,
the best confessions shared well into the evening.
I miss the laughter at misspeaks and the way we tell
the story so many years later. I miss someone’s house
with a sofa made ready for me.
Fenced in by smoky thoughts, how much can I write
that will every be read at all? Remember when we
read our poetry
in high school
and people thought we were magic?
We borrowed each other’s metaphors and
never charged a dime.
Remember when we drove all night just to get to San
Bernardino?
