Love the name.
Got upset
When the man called out, Seen.
Stupid man.
It's Sean, and not Shawn.
A year older than Gerald.
Two younger than Kevin.
Two older than me.
That's Sean.
Daddy wrote home about us.
Maura was working at the hospital.
Sheila was finishing highschool.
Kevin won the Science Fair.
Sean plays ice hockey with the All Stars,
All over Canada and the U.S.
I found the letter, penned in '62,
A jagged European cursive. They tend to write the same.
I've seen the words, run together to hide the spelling;
With JMJ's and TG's sprinkled like manna throughout.
The last page was missing,
Just when Daddy'd write about Gerald, me, and Marlene.
Gerald with his Beetles haircut.
Me, mimicking ( probably mocking),
Some unknown priest, to my father's delight;
Marlene, the wee pigeon, he missed most when he worked
Away from home.
Jimmy, The Bruiser, wasn't here yet.
The last of an Irish brood settled in Canada.

I discovered it in the spare room at Granny's and Frank's.
There was no mention of Michael, Eucheria or Particia.
He exaggerated about the harsh, six-month winters here,
And our proximity to the North Pole.
Suggested Frank try putting copper wires around Granda's wrists;
The Egyptian mummies didn't exhibit signs of bone deterioration.
Daddy was hard-pressed to be proven wrong when he concocted.
Sean had a drawer full of ribbons, medals, trophies and plagues,
And a large S, his Senior Letter.
He also had sideburns, a much smaller nose, and,  smelled
as good as he looked,
The Elvis dip-curl, the Connery swag, the Selleck stash to Clooney cool.
Sean kept a disposition of hidden pains secreted for others.
A heart of tears.
A spirit of adventure.
I love Sean, I recall.
He is always welcome here.
Drops by sometimes.
It's always a great surprise.

My past was not yours,
Neither the future will.
I won't come back,
As m no more the older me.

after months of
not dreaming and
now that's all I do--

you came unannounced
to get the last of your belongings--
usually a house is a rough analogy
for my heart

and I went out to the garage
wide open, not a single
thing of yours left

what a strange
thing to feel like you
never knew someone

i have the hopes
strung like outliers, darting
off the graph,
stretching a little too far
I was never good with
strategy, math, a rough
sediment but never dust
and we reached the
angle of repose so
long ago.

I left at his door,
Some flowers and some innocene.
All feelings and all promises.
Dressed in memories ,
with a crown of smile.
İ Set in search of my missing piece
Of broken heart.

and if out here
I look like regret
then drive away

i can understand--
I took off the rear-view
mirror 'cause black trucks
still drive the highways
and not one of them
belongs to you,

if you need a body count
you have plenty of those,
slide back in to those old
lives, if you must.

water and oil.

no facts are sure no eminence is more gloried
no thoughts more pure
ten times the day is logged into
papers artifacts and journals
they say more than any book
real life the essences
of skin and flesh and bone
ten times the brain stems energy
into a theory a rainbow a painting a poem
written down under tears stains sobs
catching breaths
onto last months utility bill
or the latest eviction notice
a  masterpiece of hearted stone words lost
in the next day's trash pickup and the
***** stinking men sweating
running behind
the loud crushing metal truck the plastic
bins thrown casually into with
callous ignorance go the memories of lost souls
poets who might have made
Emerson cry choke
feel

at the back of fresh, faded or even others' receipts
in front your pack of cigs and your floral, feminine taste on place mats,
were snippets of your poetry.

(none were about me, obviously)