I can’t honestly recall how many bereavement steps there are -
five – or is it seven?
death of a pet, loss of a family member, expiry of a relationship
endings as endings pass

Denial, anger, fear, forgiveness, anger, addictions, anger
that makes it seven.

This whole “lets be friends” thing.  
It’s over.  You’ve called us off.
You wouldn’t be friends with your late husband,
can’t cuddle your deceased dog (such a good boy)
what on earth would make anyone – let alone you
- a bright, animated, artistic, energetic woman -
what on earth would possess you to think the death
of our intimacy could manifest itself into to “friends”?

We are not a television show.  No “happily ever after” – after all.

I’m “friends” with my baseball team, theatre buddies
high school colleagues, university alma-matter.

Perhaps because I’ve not lain naked with them
talked of promise of future, crossed lines through intra and inter
personal relationships.
Most often these “friends” are wiling to stick with me when I drop the ball,
or don’t call, forget their phone numbers or
when I ask for them to simply listen.

The denial, I will live with forever if need be
pursuit of your company is well worth the efforts,
the disappointment is a given
If you felt the same, I wish you’d say so
forgiveness is one of the five-or-seven steps


Yet even with my addictions under control, somehow
somehow, I can’t seem to refute or deny the passion
Anger of self, anger of me
anger at what we could have become
if you’d only seen fit to accept the sincerity of my feelings
– not anger at you, or because of you
anger for angers sake
just for the sake of it sometimes.
Anger at loss and disappointment.

To feel
to feel something
anything to help myself feel that I matter at all
to anyone any more
I don’t feel that right now.
It’s been quite some time since I felt that.

It’s the passion I will miss the most.  
The comfort, the ease of expression,
appreciation of the moon, anticipation of calm days,
to walk and hold hands, to swim

Not feel that disappointment and
not feel alone
again
and try not to feel so heartbroken that it makes me cry
all at once.

While the disappointment,
the anger,
fear and heartache take hold
they supersede everything my “friendship” could offer.

Here I sit in our two-hundred channel first world
where expedient social media
has brought together friends from twenty - thirty - fourty years ago

Instant social messaging has precluded
mass rallies both lawful and not - started instantly,
NHL riots schemed just minutes ahead of scheduled network programming,
photos of an infant barely ten breaths old
available to grandma’s inbox as quickly as one can “press number sign”.

High definition of high frequency high turn-over television networks
for food, cartoons, comedy, westerns, classics, country music
and all day ****

Meanwhile here in the now unaptly named “City of Champions”
every screen on every television
in every bar, pub or club tonight
they’re watching the
World Championships
of
Poker.

I ******* trusted you
my heart on my sleeve
knowing you needed to be loved
so you said – so I heard
then stood by you when you were
alone at times in the middle of it all
when summer’s sun rose and set
on rocky shores used as wedding tides

You ******* lied to me
my ears not fully in my head
to hear your un-truths about where
you wanted to be,
who you wanted to remain,
what part of you letting go
while still so full of self
you’d had enough to throw around your weight
and beat me, my eyes in the clouds
unclear when to let go when I fell.

Don’t ******* tell me
to get my head out of my ***.
It’s been there for years
every time I run into the likes of you and your kind
hating every waking moment, unable to sleep
during the midnight sun, long since passed
while tracking down the influence of your problem
in my head.

SWEATERS ON – SWEATERS OFF

Sitting board-room style for hours on end, her sweater on – sweater off
at times too cool to concentrate,
        other times not wanting to perspire
they both thought it a shame to waste such a lovely day indoors
at times staring out the window trash blustered along the street,
at times watching her, sweater on – sweater off

He was happy to buy lunch hoping they could leave office confines
      even for an hour
the sun and the brisk walk for sandwiches and tea
       would warm them sufficiently
to inevitably leave off, the sweater off that afternoon

He admired her – not just to look at - but appreciate
the nape of her neck, soft smooth shoulders giving way
        to the work-out bicepts
it was inconceivable that a man in his right mind
would cast such treasures aside
smallish ******* still-firm protruding from the blouse
        beneath the off-sweater
breathing in – breathing out

He knew so very little about female biology,
        being a man was difficult enough
curious to learn more about her “change of life”
almost apologetic about her wrestling with
         sweater on – sweater off
yet wise enough to steer clear, leaving such questions unasked.

The distraction for him was much more approval, than gawk
wondering whether she would quietly smile
during the occasional too long glare
or would she alley-slap him silly for being so brutishly insensitive
ogling while she struggled with sweater on – sweater off

Pen in hand, head down, back-to-work, such questions left unasked
                              although the appreciation continues.......

Last day on the job meant ensuring lines were tight,
tanks filled, hoses pumped,
     boots heavy, dry

Days of volunteering had long gone, years ago
hours of training, gym time, study time,
little time to rest, scant time for family,
     or friends fishing

Last day on the job meant sleeping light
ready for alarm’s alarming alarm,
pushing through lack of sleep,
ever conscious of the task
     the task

Route to the alarm during last day on the job
allowed a precious moment spent wondering about
stretching a fifty-thousand dollar city pension
through twelve months with sufficient money left for
moderate vacations, finishing the basement (finally),
trading in the beater for a “new-to-them” pick-up.

Colleagues wept openly during the last day on the job.
The hardest moments were spent
with the crew Captain making the long walk up the driveway
to break the news to his wife about
     his last day on the job.



Last day in the city was spent with laces tight,
hockey bag full, fans pumped,
     stick taped, dry

Years of minor leagues were well past due
training program’s ritual, airline schedules,
****** steak dinners in greasy spoons
left little time for autographs, rookie card poses,
     or friends fishing

Last day in the city meant sleeping late
through three time zones, restless in anticipation of front desk’s
wake-up call.


On route to the game during last day in the city
included hushed coach and trainer meetings
with news about trades,
draft picks, adequate compensation
including a five-hundred-thousand dollar signing bonus,
full-cost moves, maybe a trophy wife

The hardest moments of that day
were spent withholding tears
during a dealership visit with his girlfriend
to cancel the BMW lease on
     the last day in the city.

Caught in the road block between
time and space
that twilight of
what to say when the words are all said
what to do when heights of pinnacle
was long ago.

Together for love’s sake
when there is only one lover
Love making for *** sake
is merely *******
Talking for talk sake
forces words that ring untrue
in the ears of the beholder
Doing simply for the sake of doing
is going through motions
without emotion some would say,
almost uncaring, unfeeling, unfettered
the bird of passion flown into yesterday’s
ancient sun spot,
speckles of happiness
dimmed by time
too many words
not enough emotion.

Miles of nothingness for hundreds and
hundreds of miles
only flocks of geese, dozens of them
trapped between snow drifts and ice caps
turning rivers deeper than the ocean itself
creating white rapids filled with beauty
through crystal clear ice water
rushing over moss laden rock formations
colour beyond any city paint store
ice flows and water puddles
with snow patches for beach sand
turning pale blues into near blackness of depth
below clouds of cotton blown about by
the Buffallo hauling kids and kit back from Pangnirtung

My charges, from up this part of Canada
don’t see what the fuss is all about
For them, frankly, there’s nothing to see
miles of nothingness
oh yes and four clouds