farewell address
rating: +25+x

it's eleven at night
and my forehead
is sweaty even though
the ceiling fan is on
and it's not hot out
where the wasps have
dug a small hole in
our front yard.
john darnielle invites
me to sit across from
him with a small
fire between us while
he strums his guitar
and sings about the
time his stepdad
launched a glass at
his mom's head and
i think about how
i'm going to start
this poem.

how do you tell
someone that you
love them very much
but you just think
you need some time
alone under a big
leafless oak tree
on a brisk fall morning
rummaging through
the file cabinet in
your mind for poems
to scribble in your
spiral ring notebook
and ship off to the
faceless judges in chicago?

i have been trying
to get it in my head
that the leaves of
this oak tree one
day turning brown
and fluttering down
to the soft earth
below does not make
them any less beautiful
now while they are
dark green and sway
gently in the cool
summer breeze.
maybe you're
already there and
you won't mind that
i no longer want to
give you every
flower bouquet i make.

maybe you never
minded at all and
i built a fake version
of you out of sewing
needles and acoustic
guitar strings in my
head to justify letting
these thoughts out
of their cages like
rescued raccoons
being released back
into the forest.
i could just disappear
into the morning mist
without a word like
those wandering souls
they're fond of in the
kinds of short stories
you read in high school
english class but i
think a host who
is so generous
with the drinks at
least deserves a wave
and a hug goodbye.

thank you for giving
me a quiet park bench
all to myself where i
could try to write myself
a flashlight to see through
all the dark ahead of me
and thank you for being
patient with me while i
stumbled around my house
looking for all the light
switches and thank you
for making me feel like
i could make a few strands
of grass emerge from
a pile of concrete rubble
with my best singing voice.
i promise i will keep you
in my heart while i
try to scale this jagged
mountain and if i ever
make it to the top i'll
send you a postcard
with a poem scrawled
on the back. i don't
know what exactly
it will say but i know
that it will end with

i love you.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License