Saturday, November 16, 2019


Poem #8

You always make a note of the benchmarks and milestones
Anniversaries, first date, first kiss
The first time I spent the night.
Dates and times
Places, major events
Your lodestars and handholds
Recorded for your own private posterity.
You write things down,
Make marks on calendars.
I recall them too, with prompting
(I’m not some daft ass)
But you have to remind me. 
You have to tell me the details,
The color of the carpet,
The Cabernet or Merlot,
The broken up guy in the untucked button down
He’s too old to be out with those kids.
The amber glint of light in your hair
In this heretofore shadowed place.
How the corners of your eyes
Crack like struck glass
When you lose yourself in a true laugh.
The purple napkin on a beige table.
The mismatched sock.
The concave shape of the hotel soap.
The faux brass of an airport bar.
You think I'm not paying attention
But I'm drinking in all of that,
The lost trifles, the peripheral filler
The unseen, the unheard.
That’s where all the poetry is,
That's what brings it all back to life.
All those throwaway details and lines
Are the ones I’m always trying to catch.


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