All That Jazz

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.