The Diner Up the Road

 

The Diner Up the Road

(“I am a debtor both to Greeks and to barbarians, both to the wise and to the foolish.” Romans 1:14)

The times have dictated their letters to me and
left me on my own to affix the signature.
Rolling over snow drifts melting in the warming rain
I move from yesterday to noon,
from leftward to soon,
from literature to mixology,
from my wicker chair to the indented couch.

I would thrust my hand through the dimensions if
I could.
I would reach behind me before you died and ask
for one more time at Denny’s or a ride on the back of your
Honda.

I would read the books again, in the same edition,
of my favorite authors. I would smell the chalk and
greasepaint
in the rehearsal space where we used to eat our lunches,
run our lines, rehearse our plays, and make dates for
the weekend; mud football or a day wandering the
basement shops in Berkely. I discovered Tom Rush
that way.

The days are much too quiet while I am still alive,
and you, and them, and cousins, and friends, and parents,
and sisters, have flown from this orb while I lose track
of the living.

I would adjust the tuner if I could, ensure a better reception.
I would place my heart in your ears, not my words,
for you to hear the aching inflection. We made mistakes
nearly every minute in those days, but friendships never swayed.
How could they, and where would we go?

Now the same, the beloved, the laughter, the root beer mugs in the freezer,
are forgotten joys since we’ve learned to play with adulting toys.
And yet, you; the circle of prayer cross-legged on the floor,
the study group I skipped too often,
the gang of three that always included me
when we met for lunch in the quad just to see
if the pie-eating contest was still going ahead as scheduled.

And I am sandpaper, and I am silk. And I am crepe paper,
and I am cardboard. And I would sit at this table,
the diner up the road, ordering hash and eggs
and setting out a second cup of coffee in the hopes
that you would take the seat next to me
and discover that

My tears and my laughter are both still the same.

Times When Silence

 

Times When Silence

(“May your gracious love come to me, your salvation, just as you said.” Psalm 119:41)

There were times when following
looked like abandonment. The voices were
shapeless,
the promises faceless,
and the landscape so concrete you
could not help walking on the cracks.

Though the path predates me
I’m the one who has felt old lately.

Some days I hate the rain, other days the
storm is passion and promise, dotting my windows
and animating trees preparing for the slumber of winter.

Sweet dreams, they say,
and sometimes they are. When doves
pair up in your attic
you should not complain of loneliness.

There are times when silence
feels like applause, one moment when love
has drawn all existence into itself and landscapes
melt like wax. Below the windy earth
and above the laconic sky, mercy awakens,
a single syllable unworded.

Everybody Wants to Know

Everybody Wants to Know

(“They kept on asking Him. Then He stood up and said, ‘Anyone of you who is without sin can throw the first stone at her.’” John 8:7)

The phone kept on ringing; everyone wanted to know the story.
Some were astounded, some felt he had been hounded, but most
were curiosity seekers with rocks in their pockets.

The letters with official stationery and watermarks kept arriving;
the mailbox was another source of panic attacks. New accusations,
new additions to the charges, new lies about what they said they had
not lied about. Though some were sympathetic, the still all had
rocks in their pockets.

He had failed, caught in the act, coughed between scene changes,
as sick over failure as over spoiled meat. He had wept, he had scored
a job just to keep his head above water. He shivered as he drove to
meet every client, sometimes drying tears before he went inside.

He heard about satan most times he gathered with the same clan
in a different town. He repented so many times he nearly drowned
in his own tears. He had revealed his weakness, sought out help,
and instead he was dismissed out of hand; one of the hands that
fiddled with stones in his pocket.

When men lie to destroy the one who sinned worse than them,
who gets to toss the rocks? When the men hate to make themselves
greater than the one who failed, how many stones will we need?

He heard about hell the rest of the times he gathered with
a similar clan that could not stand Obama. This time he was
done repenting
and showed the power of the poisoned arrows every time they
flew from the mouths of men that had no time for him. He escaped
to fewer trusted places, turned away from every face; the

fight for affection and the fear of unconnected rejection
nearly destroyed his soul. One rip after another left him
the loneliest he had ever been.

But he knew one thing, if not two, he would never carry
rocks in his pockets or spew another man’s sins by
phone or letter, word or sermon; he would not load another
man with a weight heavier than his own shame.