Oh, memory – pressing the doorbell,
always without calling ahead, I
amble beneath an exhale of gray,
the sky whispering its intention to
break, a bedsheet on the brink of
tearing, scattering tears of relief
to the faultlines in the Pittsburgh
concrete underfoot, and I
remember, after breaking the
heart beneath my ribs, you asked
our server to see a dessert menu.
Funny how cruel it was
to consider a cheesecake,
all things considered, and
startling how bleak the
blue-gray wash of worry
down my collarbones when I
remember you, let myself wonder –
will the lost boy fly? could he ever
discover the magic of imagining
better?
The night I met you, you
sliced limes on my countertop,
plop, fizz, peeling loose
the top layer of one another’s
universe, let loose a poem,
bright and feverish, then
fought sleep, frenzied,
the rare and vital promise
of narrative infinity.
All that to land here,
enormous coffeeshop with
ample table space, so far
removed from the days of
watching your eyes go
lightless, drift across the
swimming pool, one story
and its bone crack finale,
waved away from the
doorstep after the terse
trading of pleasantries.
michael king 