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."