His toy split my toe nail.
My crimson flirted carpet.

and;

He’d the arm of a major.
Where I’d the skin of the solemn.

but;

He’d ever by my son.
I’d ever be his father.

and;

“Bravery’d” be our name,
“Bravery’d” be our name.

You and I aren’t quite so different,
We really aren’t.

With every feeding came life,
And with every wrinkle,
Death,
Notarized our finite parchment,
Parallel and ultimately mortal.

We’ve shared –
An experience, any experience
And epiphanies congruent pain,
The numerous, the humorous.

We’ve remembered upon
Paths we’ve taken,
Together, apart, and in –
Eras defined by how we
Walked, talked,
Slouched,
Or slowed to a crawl,
Huddled and bled a back.

So come the heave,
The finality in flame,
Make a face for the name,
Let the dead man dream
And take that memory to the grave,
The One, that’s never forgotten
Whilst eternal and reciting –

“I love you,”
I loved every single
One
Of
You.

The rain reluctantly sprinkles
If only in the shade,
And on the back of a hand,
An outstretched appendage;
My own, I think.

This taste of, “blue,”
With sweat mingled leaves,
Caressed knuckles,
That’d known no embrace;
You converge, to corner,
And later, to conquer.

I’d remain though,
And under my tree,
Understanding the water,
And how a flower’d grow;
Exited, your eyes,
And not the clouds,
The troubles that
Happen upon,
Or above, us.

I’d promised to pull,
To run the rain away,
But retract my hand instead.
I’m tired – It’s time to sleep,
And when I slumber,
Perhaps I rain as well;
Fear, my only friend,
Whilst my truest companion
Be forgotten.

With my hand held side,
As opposed to you who’d wish,
I know that I may wake,
Shake-off, and by chance
Without feeling, digest numb;
The easy-out for the idiot,
The lesser, and the lashed,
‘Ever’d in fear of what might be.

Cars,
Like coffee pots,
Break down,
And more so,
When you least want them to.

So imprisoned,
The frigid,
And with no power-windows,
We didn’t care about the heat,
Only the smoke
That now stung our eyes –

Two-fold
Atop already open wounds,
And the cancerous,
Lying in wait, most often,
Indiscriminately.

So enters the second urge,
And it controls me,
I don’t control “it;”

“It” being a mood frosted
Amnesia, free,
Like beer’s hiss,
At the crack of a can.

And like beer,
“It” runs out
When the money does;

All too quickly to be
Replaced by the
Haunts of –

Bill collectors, war
And the knife in the drawer.

Something beckons when
We spot a diner from within
The snowbound derelict
We reside.

Scraped change and reckonings,
We can afford a few,
Drinks.

Forgotten were the coats when
We abandon ship, abandon you,
Abandon me,
And more importantly,
The haunts;

Our chariot, a remain,
A wreck on shores unknown
With bodies, perhaps,
Left for the living come spring.

For each and every other,
There's something to be said.

There’s something to be said for –
The security guards
With coke nails.

There something to be said for –
The alcoholics
That moonlight as bartenders.

There’s something to be said for –
The huddled mother,
Cradled child and cusped copper.

There’s something to said for –
The recluse with word,
Broken atop a glass of wine.

For each and every other,
There’s something to be said,

But one knows not another word.

Spite contorted smiles
And lips
Drenched in green
Sought the satins that never
Satisfy – Sheets, fallen,
Wings, blistered,
And holes burnt through the
Bottoms of shoes.

So I pace myself parallel
The corner of one left
Eye, peripheral and
Gazing to the
Two-step-stumble
I now partake;
An answer to
Her dance with
Impending desire.

Me, being the reluctant,
Me, being the timid, the torrent
And soon to blow over.

I know I’ll leave,
She didn’t,
And more importantly,
I know she’d find home,
Discovered, empty
With little more than
Lint in pocket, abandoned,
Just one lonely shiver
And looking for warm.

So if my cold hadn’t taken over
Not quite yet,
I’d give her a
Blanket,
It’s the best I can do,
It’s all I can do,
But at least it’s
Something I can do.

My Mother was sad –
When I had walked, talked
And left the girl there,
All alone in her bed,
The bed I’d fled
And cushion not my own
As I’m now laying,
Sheets up to chin
And lying as well, at home,
My mother’s home,
But the home she said,
I’d "always have.”

     I roll over.

My bed, my very own,
Is hours away and if I were,
“There,”
I’d still hear her tears,
My mother’s
And those of the “others” I’d left
Behind, left before, abandoned
In that very bed that’s now
And hers, only hers,
Far from ours or ever will be;
An “Eden,” becoming exile;
Truth in prior trespass – an end.

     I roll over.

And as selfish as all this may sound,
I saunter to the smell pancakes,
Maple syrup,
And fresh coffee in sobbing’s stead;
Up until the grief of a mother –
Tears atop tabletops,
A stream quite displaced from mad,
Where my visits, become few, far
And even further,
Most importantly – Alone;
For her, for me and it pains her even more,
The solitude of, “I.”

     I roll over.

Alas, the clock’s ticking not only sorrow,
But something else awry. Awry or away,
Where mom’s finally tackled slumber again,
Snores intermitted renewed grin
Under dreamt up birthday cakes,
Sunlit orange juice and dandelions; Whisps
Breeding the only smile, her son’s come home.
So with light whimper, fried eggs come ‘morrow
And a small dog at her feet,
She’s in a moment, she’s satisfied.
The one left behind, probably not though,
As she’s atop a pool of tears and drapery boiled
Drink come reckless.

     I roll over.

And like her, I’m still awake,
Dreams taunt, but sheep can’t sleep,
Because I’m –
A little ashamed, a tad content,
Still tired though and as odd as this may
Sound, or not,
Hungry for breakfast
As pancakes overcome pillow-muffled
Cries
And burnt bacon mirrors souls and a
Sacred long gone;
Solace in only one of the two being happy,
But one more than the two that weren’t before.

     I roll over and will again and again
    And again.