I don't want you
to tell your friends
how much
I matter to you.

I want them to know
by the way you'll
look at me at dinner

or

the way you talk
about me when
you should be
doing something else

I don't want
a necklace
or a diamond

I want your lips
against my neck
whistle your hands
hold me like you've
never touched anyone
before.

I don't want anyone
I want you

Michiko would never know
the strange creature that opened its bowels
that day, was named Enola Gay

she would remember the fine feel of the water on her face,
the taste of tea she had with her pears, and the odor of chrysanthemums through her window

the same window through which
her mother would stare, there, at the morning sky
at the smothering smoke of all creation

her brother was left a shadow
on a wall, nothing left at all of her father
who stood at ground zero

Michiko, only double digits the day before
would follow her mother down the long road
to the smoldering fires and scorched skin
and the stalking stench of the dead

on the path, along the way
but only that day, Michiko would see the black giant
growing in the summer sky
a magnet to her eye

more beautiful than all
the sweet flesh and shrines that fed it
a billion years in an instant
that August morn

there are poets all around
  speaking aloud
   to those who will listen

a rotation
  of the population

ones searching
  ones mourning
   ones thinking
    ones praying

for something
  or someone
   or nothing
    or no one

why do we turn
  to writing
   to reading
    to sleeping
     to dreaming
      for fulfillment

i guess we find comfort
  in this space
   of the abstract
    to release ourselves
     find company for once
      and return when peace is found

I sit to the left of a lonely man.
He is smiling wider then the ocean can stretch.
He is french.
Wrinkled.
Glowing.
We have come to the topsham fair.
Strange creatures pass and we gaze at them,
Talking about how funny or pretty or different they are.

We eat french fries.
He looks down.
"Your grandmother never ate skins on potatoes. She was old fashioned."
"You must of ate a ton of em then, huh?"
"Oh yeah, all kinds."

Two girls around 20 skip on by
Short denim dresses,
Bright red lipstick,
Candy apple shoes.

"Back in my day i'd be chasing those little girls all over the place. Now half the time they're chasing you!" I laugh
"Yeah, I have fun papa, not as much as you had though"
"I thought i'd find some old geezers like me but they aren't here."
"Well I'm sure they're around. let's go find some."

We get off the bench
walk a ways.
His cane clicking on the old tar.
We stopped to watch a young boy laugh on the pirate ship.
It swings him up high
He screams and giggles.
We smile up at him.
Watch his mother put hands to her mouth and heart attack.

We come across a bench with two grey haired men and an empty seat.
"Can I sit here?"
"Oh come on down!"

Papa, well,
He starts talking about the good old days.
"My wife passed away four months ago."
He talks to the grey haired men.

As they make conversation,
I realize, there's a reason us lonely men stick together.

We get it, Sometimes.
You just need to talk about the pain
like it's just something that happened.
If you keep saying it.
You can remember it.
You can be there for awhile.
Instead of here.
Instead of lonely.

Lonely men love stories.
We love hearing stories.
We love telling our stories.

If a lonely man tells you his story.
Listen.