a poem for a friend who is slowly dying from a rare brain disease


this day.



nothing

left in

my old

jean pockets,



only a

point

of view

you,



and it is

as soothing

as a

summer

california

sun upon

my body,



and as

holy

as a

sermon

from my

sunday

church.



I kick

off my

shoes

and run

my feet

through

this park's

uncut grass,



I am

certain

some where

in Carolina

that you

must be

doing the

same,



then I

pause

look up

at the

clouds,



and I

wish upon

them to

myself.



please one

of you

take me

to where

you are.,



but only

silence

greets me

as they

pass from

view.



and I am

left behind

once again.



with this

day

and this

point of

view of

you.



that tastes

like



honey upon

my lips..