I Remember

It took 35 years for you
to make an impact on my life.
Though I only knew you one,
I expect the last 34
were just as magnificent.
If people ask me, I will say
James was a good man.
I will joke that he was funny.
I will fumble my words
and wish him back to this earth.
But maybe my friend,
my friendly ghost,
chatting three cubicles down,
might say happiness
is where he is now.
In my sadness comes his smile.
I remember us chatting
of fishing trips, hikes
and the Denver air that brought James
to me.
James. I miss you.
My time with you will be missed.
I hope that where you are now
is somewhere similar
to the chilled Durango rivers
you know so well. Home.
I plan on learning to fish.
I plan on fishing in the deep backwoods
with high hopes you'll be there
guiding my line back and forth.
When my line catches,
I'll remember your jokes
and how you told me one day
you'd teach me how to fish
the way it was supposed to be done.
I miss you, my friend.
I miss you.
Friend.

Homecoming

Coming home
is what it feels like.
Lifting up the garage
door by hand to see
you waiting on the steps.
I put the car in park,
shuffle the keys
into my pocket and walk
up to your open hands.
As the door shuts out
the silhouettes of our bodies,
only the shadows of lips
and hands coming close
can be seen as the light
dims out.
We kiss until the door
opens us up
inside.

The Dance

Dancing to most means moving feet
and arms with fingers holding
dancing hands.
His song comes on in the living
room, eyes and lips
meet. Deep, Hard. Kissing.
The love is so deep. Dance
Love. Dance

Who Am I?

I’m but a bubble
Cascading up
And down the spine
of my own crooked life.

Some Kind of Neighbor

(For my grandpa)

On some evenings,
when the streets have given
up the sound of cars and kids,
the silence delivers me a ghost.
I go outside when the quiet
comes into my bones.
Blinds everywhere close shut.
The air smells of a long day.
Homes start to sleep
like people do.
As the neighborhood tucks itself in,
something happens to me.
Aspens start to sway. The wind
picks up when I ask it to.
There are closed-eye moments
where I, too, sway with the trees.
I ask them to blow this ghost
slowly into my heart.
Trees are such giving pieces of earth
when you ask them the right questions.
"Give him to me," I mouth in silence.
"Bring him into my body."
When I open my eyes, it happens.
Branches shiver and I start to cry.
My ghost is among the leaves.
As I stop to listen to the speech of trees,
my ghost comes home.

For a Mother

Listening to my mother
makes me understand.
Hearing mom
sounds like music.
Mothers make sons
into something more
than just boys and teenagers.
Mothers are more
than just parents
and best friends.
When I think of mom,
I attempt to feel
how it must feel
to be loved like that.
As sons grow
from grade school to college,
I only hope that they understand
how mothers are smiling
with their boys.
All I know in my life
is that I want to be like her.
I want my kids,
as a father,
to know that I love them.
I want every child
to feel the depth of love
my mother has given me.
They need to feel that.
They should want that.
Children,
like the adult I am today,
deserve a love like that.

Couch Comfort

They say anger is a gift.
It is.
Ignorance.
I like when you ignore me.
Actually, I prefer it.
That way I can feel something normal.
Turn off your phone.
Let me sit,
back against the couch,
and think about you with me.
There is the hope of happiness.
I am hopeful of smiles
with you
But you won't happen.
In my world,
I want you for you.
Sitting here now,
with my spine along the pillows,
you have no place in the world.

Bearing Down the Bottle

I am so sick of you
as my daily routine.
Waking up with my own fingerprints
framed frozen along your bottled body
breaks this alcoholic heart of mine.
You come grinning out of the freezer.
Knowing what I know,
I grab you by your fragile neck,
drink and dive right back down
into my own
fucked up habit.

Jukebox

We are our best
when the night comes to a close.
Bar bus boys hang in the towel
with the jukebox still playing
my two quarters.
Our hands hold tight
as the boys across the room
watch us kiss.
We sip house whiskey,
laugh like children do,
and smile back.
The jukebox retires.

Sliding

The grandfather clock
slides its way past 6 a.m.
Outside, garage doors open
and shut.
Front porch lights
make their way to bed
while the rest of us stretch
and move our sleepy bones.
School children bumble along sidewalks.
The sun casts shapes
of backpacks and bodies
onto the corners of every street.
A swell of geese above our roofs
creates a clever chatter that bounces
from house to house.
Every morning,
It is as if Earth wakes up with us
to this magical parade of life and light.
As the sunlight fingers
its way through the wooden blinds,
I thumb the sleep from my eyes,
smile, and let the light
slide in.