For Madison

[class of 2007]

i wonder if you see my photographs
as you ponder your glowing
computer screens:

wondering "whatever happened
to him? where did he
end up?"

and "why did he grow
a beard? doesn't he look
weird now?"

i know likely this
is untrue—that i (or anyone)
haunt you.

i've uprooted my ghosts
here to Ann Arbor;
i've sprinkled holy water

on my childhood bedroom
and in the chilling white halls
of that place.

i've moved in, moved on,
moved up and moved out—
my beard has grown up and out.

i look at you every now and again
as my MacBook breathes its
very last whizzing breaths:

i see lips pursed and bellies gleaming
with sweat and oil;
i see so many arms around so many things.

i see diamond rings and baby names;
i see family photos and nights out
where i know you will never find me.

i see you without me
and it's all bitter sweet.
i had my fill, thanks

but maybe one for the road.
i never had one before we left—
before i said goodbye

and you said "see you later."

No comments:

Post a Comment