In the dark, silent house,
the sound in your ears
is the rhythm of always,
the whisper of going,
the hum of arriving,
the anthem of living
this day.
The people of porches,
pulsing with talk,
throw up their hands,
squint in the sun
and enjoy their companions
in peace.
You respond to the rattle
as memory shifts,
recalling the friend
who teased you distraught
and left you a wish
to touch him or smack him
or hug,
and you stand up to pace,
until the moment has passed.
The house next door tips
as on toes
and peers through the blinds
to ask “are you cool
in the dark?”
and you wait
to say, “so,”
and sip at your drink.
You wave a distracted good-bye
as you focus again
on the whisper and hum,
hearing, this time,
the voice of the friend
who wove vibrant thought
and sweetness of soul
out of her tale and deep
into yours,
and wrote,
in the end,
love you
to here
and love you beyond,
but there’s never forever
and tomorrow is pulling
and the best I can do,
a distracted good-bye.
This is the hum of arriving,
the whisper of going,
the murmur of stillness and resting,
of resting bare on the sand
while the sun cooked us to puddles,
and the wind stirred us
and whipped us
and carried us home
and we sipped at our drinks
and said our farewells
in the dark, silent house
where I sip at my drink
and think of the poet
who bled real blood
in a house just as dark
as the life he had lead,
until, tied to a chair,
he took the mistake
he no way deserved.
That rhythm of always,
no respecter of lovers,
nor generous with gifts,
is simply a part
of the anthem of living,
of waiting this day
for houses to tip on their toes
and people of porches
to point out a way.
