Of course, I’m sorry I didn't sit next to you longer, hold you, and chat but my hands were gone, severed, and off to other tasks. I hope I didn’t ruin your carpet with all the blood. Maybe the pattern will hide it a bit.
I heard you but my ears were shut tight, cauterized to protect my mind. I was racing to the next thought, the next chapter, the next verse, and the melody doesn’t include you. I will let your words in later when the weld gives way, and I can hear again. If I ask you to repeat yourself, please don’t take offense. I do care. Sure, it’ll be later but that’ll be now for me.
Just thinking about it reminds me of my Dad standing impatiently at my grandparent's front door every holiday, one hand on the knob, the other jangling the car keys. It’s time to get the show on the road, he’d say, and we’d shift gears from being there to getting the fuck out of there in the time it took the door to slam behind us.
When it's time to go, it's time to go, even if the drive home is three minutes. I’d make that ride with my head out the window, like a dog, dopey-faced, nose twitching, holding leftover pumpkin pie.
It’s deep-rooted, this stuff.
Thank you. This one kind of wrote itself, and I know you know what I mean when I say that. Thank you, again.
I fu*&^ing love this one. Fans of Detroit poet Dan Demaggio will be reminded of his piece City Chicken, which I don't believe exists in print.