Wondered when you would cross that divide. Call up for no reason,
maybe to shock me with visions of wild turkeys exalting Mandarin
in a Soho discothèque. Or the engagement you sprung over beer, like
declining the desire for lemon. Or maybe with just some words
scrawled on late night napkin squares. When I told you three
friends lent me two grand during skinny months, your lips quivered:
I've never had friends like that. That chasm so wide, like crossing
a highway of speeding trucks in sopping drunken clothes during
three a.m. power outage. You call, we slow racing semis to slow
motion stills, pick our spots to cross. Looking back over blood
stained highway, glad to not be alone.
My father's desk is neater
than mine has ever been.
The pens are arranged by color,
the files are neatly labeled
and organized like sacred petrie dishes;
there is a sense of order and purpose
to perfectly alphabetized client cards.
After ten years his typewriter is
as fresh as fish newly pulled form the sea.
It is all so very antiseptic,
no knotted up notes of three a.m. inspiration,
no last week's crusted dishes,
no gym socks, unpaid bill, un-returned letters;
he is as clean and safe as a eunuch.
The mirrored wall behind his desks
reveals eyes as horribly green
and hard as his are blue,
wild laugh lines and hair to match,
that could be mine or his.
It is his desk, it is my face.
All is decided by forces unseen,
our blood thickens,
and the universe plots our endings.