Those crash-course eyes
were a terrible thing
for anyone
to ever have to look at
on any terrible night of the week.

She’s been known to show off
all the work she’s ever done
for the charity of self
and youthful, careful schizophrenia.

Those trembling hands
that couldn’t hold a kitchen knife forever.
Bad dreams even after the package
was finally delivered by horse drawn carriage
at nine o’clock in the morning.
Those outlandish prison love letters
from rodeo clowns and every antique dealer
named Clive in Portland and Nanaimo.

All of it carefully built above
thousands of stoic playing cards
to make it seem like she was in
desperate need of a strong type
who could also be silent on dog chain command.

She doesn’t have to be funny,
and she doesn’t have to pretend she’s too scared
to call the hospital when you’re six decisions
past the point where you’ve had enough.

Those nightgowns
she wears to the Jewish grocery store
in the middle of a ten-minute early morning
do most of the talking.

And they never have to scream
or talk about those teenage years
being committed to a glass washing machine
that stopped halfway
through the hurricane setting.

Everything
was probably very sad
and very organized.

At last count,
there are six different opinions
of her height, hair, laugh and injuries
from the eyewitness accounts
of those
who were either too scared
or too smart to fall at her feet
and wait for a good word to burn
their closed eyes wide open.

It’s possible
that all of those opinions
are right.

It’s just as possible
that she doesn’t care for music
and has never learned
how to drive a car.

I know a little bit.
She and I go back
to those great expectation days
of when I couldn’t take care of myself.

I know a little bit,
but if you look closely at all the frayed nerves
in the lining of my jacket
you’ll know I’m a gentleman
who doesn’t like to talk
about the past or future.

I’m deliberately superstitious.
That’s possible, too.

05/06/2011

Posted on 05/06/2011
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