year: 2008
In the itchy gloom,
I squatted down
To interrupt
the torrent of pleasant
white elephants.
Anxious to speak,
But afraid to sit
On that fragile perch
I knew my words would
flail at small talk,
lead with their elbows,
flooring decorum.
Although your hair was bereavement white,
You seemed much younger,
A little girl at a party
you could barely understand.
I’m sorry for grabbing out for you
In the fog of music and make believe
To still my sea of lurching guts,
When your cap’n was under ground,
Overboard.
Thank God as I write this
For the vaguely pretty almost blonde
To glance at, to come up for air,
Or else my lower back would snap with
The bitterness of it all.