Sale Pending

Sale Pending

(“I am the living bread which came down out of heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever.” John 6:51a)

I never liked to let anyone guess about my inner mechanism,
and whatnot,
and
what
not
may not be right with me.
I am just a shelf of cheap knickknacks, picked up in
curio shops.

But you, you named your cats,
Frik
and
Frak
and they always hid beneath your bed.
They replaced your badboy bigdog Bob
who was a puppy until the cancer choked him
like an aging man. You could not be consoled,
though you scolded his misbehavior often. We both
knew
that rambunctious boy was your mirror, the playful reflection
of the youth we both once knew.

But you followed him, friend, a mere four months ago and now
I am the one unconsoled. I walk by your house four or five
times a week,
and I have for these three years. Stopping by, I
would find you antic, sometimes sucking oxygen in
wheezing uncertainty. We shared Christmas Eve
vespers,
we sat at the Thanksgiving table,
and the last time we ate was my birthday at
the Mexican restaurant downtown. Everyone in
our hamlet loved you, and Maria’s was the best place
to celebrate.

But you are gone and my heart hangs dusty on a dry branch
of a walnut tree. I still walk by your house and barely can breathe.
But I refuse to take a different route.

The long ranch gate to your property was open today,
your house has been on the market for weeks. Someone must
be mowing the yard, or staging it for the next open house.
I almost turned in toward the glass doors where we would meet
time and time again. But I could not. They had already
removed the wooden rocker from your front porch
and the MIA/POW flag from its railings.
I moved on, like I have scores of times since I never saw
you again,
and looked up. Men were laying
new shingles over plywood; men were preparing the
last home you owned. Then I saw the sign, the realtor had
amended it;
“Sale Pending”, and I cried.

You were never shy about letting me know about your
inner inclinations. You were angry at me only once, and that
just a week before you died. You wanted me to drive to Seattle to
bring you home, to let you die in front of the window where you
watched the deer in the field and the
ships sailing down the Columbia.
I could not, and my heart cracked like sunburned skin.
I knew you might not
survive the ride back home.

Four months ago I cried again. We laid you to rest along with
Big/Bad/Bad/Boy Bob. Frik and Frak thrive on a farm somewhere.

And I am left wanting to hear you curse the same void
again
that we both crawl through. And I want to

Share a whiskey and a taco just one more time.

It’s a Dry Heat

It’s a Dry Heat

I’ve been waiting all day for your call.
I messaged you hours ago. It must be your birthday
by now.
Maybe you are celebrating, maybe I’ve lost my mind.
No one owes me anything, I never had that much to give.
My mistakes are my everything, disappointment is the
mine shaft most of my friends never escape.
So I’ll wait for a new one.

Did you hear the waves crash today; did you hear
the cymbals clang like time screeched to a standstill?
Did you hear every thought in my mind? Is that why
the doors are locked again? Is that why I’ve lost
so many words. I thought I could be
unedited
with you.

It's a dry heat, so I’ll be ok. I’m fine. I’ll take
the afternoon to unpack my luggage and drink
too much wine. I’d

Meet you for coffee, but the shop closed an hour ago.
I’d tell you everything, but I’ve tried that. No one is
left

To capture my unsettled monologues and
erase them so they do not haunt me
again. I’d teach you to dance

On the lawn across from the old
locomotive in the park. Or

Walk my dog until we finally get
lost in the dark.

The Tunnel I Traveled

The Tunnel I Traveled

If you had known me earlier perhaps
you would have seen the tunnel I traveled.
No compass, no sun to steer by, no stars to
navigate my way. If you had seen the cavern
I thought was home
I have no doubt (but then again, I do have some)
that my way would be clear to you. I might not
find my way out in the ashen dark. I might not
know where I arrive.

Sometimes I feel I must apologize for
the things I write. Sometimes my mediocrity
gets the best of me.
I’ve visited caves once or twice when they
turned out the lights. I could not see my hand
in front of my face, but I always hoped for one
person
to tell me the darkness was not my fault. The turning
of the tunnel with no light at the end
was a trajectory that was not part of me.
Or someone to tell me that, though I could not
find my way,
that it was still okay to feel, to cry, to misbehave,
to slip on the slimy stone path of the cave.

Why do I tell you this? Can I trust you?
Will you hear me? I know you will. I only hope
you don’t harm me or misinterpret me. Some day
all my anxieties will fade as the lights open for the
first act of a play.

I’ve discovered very little. I know less than I did
a decade ago. Some friends know everything.
I can hear them preach faraway on the
everyday hills.

Listen my dear one, my beloved two, my three who
will not be surprised that I write this way; I’ve lost
too many
who knew me well,
I do not want to lose another.

I’ll wait just inside the cave and hope for a visit
from just one
who will light a fire between us,
warm up my late life heart
and listen the whole night long.

10 or 12 Boxes

10 or 12 Boxes

I try to plan these things well, mete out my time
in cubes of space by design. I do not stack them,
I usually count them, and 10 or 12 seems good for the day.

But recently I’ve run out early in the afternoon or pushing the
load of lead in my brain to reach a desirable end,
I’ve used 20. Maybe 25. And I have more meetings
the day after, a granddaughter having a birthday, an airline
flight
taking me back home.
I have a son, a daughter-in-law, who know why I sleep through
a day or more,
But I still hate being the old man with a vise in his head.

In two hours, I need to apportion two boxes for an outing and
I’m again, a dozen behind. My feet will walk. They are not
paralyzed. I do not need to drive. I can recognize the venue.
I can answer the usher’s questions with a guarded mumble.
I can find my seat, and I would hope it was in the back.
I can sit, make small talk until the curtains opened. I’ve trained
myself
10 minutes at a time. Once the show starts, the music swoops down,
the player swarm the stage,
my senses will be overwhelmed. The sounds will push the pain
in my temples
deeper into my brain.

But I’m an adult. How can I continue to excuse my absence from things
that any other average grandparent would do without a thought. I agree
too readily,
and then the day is an avalanche; my heart races, my brain spins like
an old diesel engine, my hands quiver and my whole being wants to
lie down in a sensory deprivation tank.

One day I’ll have 9 boxes and can do 24. But another, after carrying
the burden days at a time, wanting to make my body behave, I have 24
and can only do 5.

Worn Jeans and Acrid Flannels

Worn Jeans and Acrid Flannels

You miss the meaning like you miss the
beauty right before your eyes when a man
in worn jeans
and acrid flannels
decides to sing before the choir begins.
You don’t like the tune, do you? You’ve
never heard it before.
You don’t care for his toes barely tapping on
the newly laid carpet for the band?
You used to call them hobos,
and then drifters,
and the homeless,
but now they are houseless. Even inside your
sacred space
you’ll force him back outside after the final amen.

Or sooner if the light falls on his forehead to reveal
the tattoo of a horned being, a goat, a devil, a simple
young buck. But the horns are red, and hooves are cloven
and the doors may soon be closed and locked from the
inside once
he
exits without ceremony.

For five minutes he had never felt so free. He was baptized,
he was holy-ghost-filled, he was speaking in tongues, he was
prophesying, he was catechized, he was confirmed, he tasted the
eucharist before it was served. He never had no demons, he
never had any possessions at all. He just walked in, walked right
up past the kneeling benches and sang because he had the time.
Then the band tuned up, the choir hummed, and someone touched
the crust of his elbow
and escorted down. He sat bewildered and besmirched,
also sweaty and free; he sang every day after that for a week

On the street, behind the stairs, on his stained bedroll, where

Angels gather, listening in concentric circles for his morning song.

To See You Dance

To See You Dance

All I want is to see you dance the
way a toddler does at a wedding
in the rain
after the music has stopped
before the cake is cut. All I want is
to see you child and free.

All I want is to hear you sing the
way a robin does before the morning
shines on the dew
after the roosters have crowed. All I want is
to hear you sing for the roses and sunflowers,
for the does and rabbits, for the grass and the breeze.

All I want is to feel the blue of your eyes
scanning the skies for the next joyful song
in the meadow
after the picnic and
before the quiet stroll home. All I want is
to feel you like a cloud embracing the
naming of your day, the meaning of the
beloved, the skipping stones across a crystal
lake.

All I’ve said, and left unsaid,
I’ve stuttered far too often, and muttered
to myself afterward that
everything I say has too many meanings.
I want to play, and simply play, to dig
in the sand,
to tell you the ocean belongs to you.

Here is my heart. It’s damaged I know.
Here is the me-of-me, sometimes making
mud pies I pass off as birthday cakes. Until
you taste it, and somehow say it’s the best cake
you’ve ever had.

Here is the sorrow of me, the hammered part that
only wants to play the music that will help you
dance.
Here is the insanity, only wanting the lyrics that
fill your mouth with songs and joy.

If the morning allows, I will show you the sun
beaming on the tulip fields,
and slowly walk away as your
aches are healed, your face shines
new like noon,
your eyes, sometimes red with tears,
wide open like summer.

If the morning allows I
would bring coffee and conversation,
and tell you I understand,
and will always, until the last dance
on faltering feet,
understand even better than before.

I’ll Plant a Metaphor

I’ll Plant a Metaphor

Imagine the reflection, listen to the slight inflection
when the words escape my throat/
that the tears are falling again.

You invited me to you party,
I said I couldn’t come,
I had other obligations,
an appointment with the sun.

But imagine the tone of my voice, listen to my dewy eyes,
when the syllables are choked/
that the sun has not dried them yet.

You insisted that I come along,
I said maybe next time,
I had other confrontations,
an employment as a mime.

But imagine the harsh heat on my feet, listen to my wringing hands,
when my knuckles are swollen/
and the sun has only burned them.

If I asked you to miss the party,
will you stay here this time?
I have scratchy destinations,
an emptying type of mind.

Here I’ll plant a metaphor in the crater
so deep
we will wait all summer to see it come
full bloom.
Imagine the moment, if you will just stay,
when it burst between our consciousness/
when it defines the tears you did not understand.