Long after I have left
this room, I am still somewhere.
If not here, there.
If not there, where?
Later I see A.
on the street corner.
After his ribectomy.
He is bitter,
winces, and holds
his side with his hand.
Some blame perception
on this whole host of ills.
Deep down, though, I know
these synapses are always gossiping
about this or that.
What if or what not.
Some suspect that this empty
husk of heart
is to blame. Poor A. again
pointing a finger
at one girl
and her appetites.
As though this stray cat
slurping milk from a dish
by this chain-link fence
is a metaphor
for the lost life.
A friend of mine who is getting
married phoned late
at night to say he can’t imagine
waking up beside her
every day for fifty years.
We interpret this
as the mystery of doubt.
In the meanwhile the cat rubs
against my leg then disappears
amid the garbage cans.
While the sun appears fatalistic
above the bridge.
I see all of this as understood.
The drum beat of longing
in the chest.
The largeness of the hours.
We are allowed to imagine it —
even while we know
it isn’t true.
