28 lutego 2012
Stranded In The Hopeless Middle
Beloved,
There was an empty space
blocking your imprint on the bed.
The warmth of your skin
and the contours of your silhouette
buzzed through the nerve endings
on my fingertips,
I missed you so much.
All night, an abnormal growth
festered in my lungs
because the old man
has begun to die.
I struggled for my breath
as fate´s sucker punch
finally broke his back.
My father,
The man I waited for at the door
with my coat and
peanut buttter and jelly lunch
to go for a ride in the mustang
that I could not see
over the dashboard
(he knew the way)
now, finds comfort
in the same old westerns
he can recite
with his eyes closed.
You like to think you don´t cry
but I´ve seen it too many times
in your own distant way;
something we pretend
to not acknowledge.
I see you decompose
while watching T.V on the couch,
a place you once perched to
like an eagle.
I had a dream about
walking Jayden to school
on the sidewalks I traversed
in an old life.
How do I tell him?
"Papa is going to die"
while he emphatically
shakes his head "no!"
How do I tell him?
that the men in his life
are not suppost to leave him
though they keep doing it.
Beloved,
Spain moves in circles
while I stand helplessly
in the middle, paralyzed;
waiting for my turn to move on.
The passing of the sun
merely marks the time
of a means to an end
till the day
I can fall like a rock
onto the contours
of your warm skin
in the bosom
of the east coast.
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