Goodnight to the cracked sidewalks
and memories of flickering neon
and bars I shouldn’t have wandered into.
The night stumbling in the shadows,
booze-stained jacket
and whiskey snarling in my stomach.
Goodnight to the Iowa River,
Clear Lake,
the fairway at Oak Hills.
Spring waiting with bass and walleye,
the deep lurking musky,
golf ***** bouncing off walking paths.
Wind ripping through the oak trees
like it knows my secrets.
Goodnight to my kids,
their laughter and homework assignments
scattered across kitchen tables,
orange juice and breakfast
spilling in morning light.
Goodnight to the edges of the living rooms
I once tore through like a blizzard,
hands shaking,
heart buzzing,
trying to hold it all together.
Goodnight to the chaos,
the bottles, the lies,
the soundtrack of destruction.
Goodnight to the poems
scrawled on napkins
and walls of abandoned houses.
Goodnight to the tired hands,
fingers mud-stained,
trying to make something that mattered—
something that lasted longer than
the rotting bones
and flowers on tombstones.
Goodnight to the creator,
quiet, patient, waiting,
hands folded over the hole
I spent a lifetime
trying to fill.
And goodnight to you too.