10/17/2017

it's not real.
not here.
not yet.

driving past the
streets i've grown to memorize
clapboard and craftsmen, american

summers drifting over me like haze
and all the memories that ensnare me
all i know is the past and that scares me

i am
thinking of exurban new jersey and thinking of
last week,

the lights across the Delaware river at midnight
reflected perfectly
but not quite,

orange red and white oil slick in the black of the water,
the lights of cars creeping across occasionally.
i burn a cigarette out, toss it into the water szzz

ah, god, you say, looking up from your stoop
i love that sound,
i recall i used to burn them out

on my hands because i did not feel them
and for a while there is nothing say. you look back down again
and it is quiet.

but look, i stand up, almost yell,
almost wading into the cold October water
and

maddening with interest by the second.
is that a light i see, in the water?
a glance towards you

again you look up,
now leaning to the side
the faintest glimmer,

you conclude.
i wonder, out loud, what is it.
you tell me it is hard to be like us.

i ask, what's us?
eyes still on the water.
oh, well, you know.

then i understood.
striking a match again
and pacing round the riverbank

i throw stones now,
smooth ones and rough ones,
each making a different sound as they hit the water

trying to hit the glimmer
then stopping, wondering why?
i sit back down, chastising myself for my inability to relax

you listen to my heart
oh its fast
tap my thigh as you hear it, head on chest

dundundundun
i laugh because my heart's gonna **** me one day
just like it did my grandmother's father

and so on
and so forth.
driving back,

on the bridge,
i shake my head.
point at the darkened spot

hey, thats where we were earlier
i don't tell you this, but i look for the shine in the water.
i don't find it.