Wish I could be more
like Jack Kerouac, content, excited
about driving incessantly
back and forth across the country
in a car without air conditioning,
instead of always being tense
and nervous about all the trucks
and traffic, instead of getting irritated
when some jackass
cuts me off and when I get
every single goddamn traffic light.
Yes, if I were more like Jack Kerouac
and Neal Cassady had been
I’d enjoy this 400 mile drive down
to see my father-in-law
in the Shady Arbors Nursing Home.
Homemade birdhouse collection.
A rack overflowing with tiny antique milk pitchers.
Hand sewn wall hangings of shells and lighthouses.
Cups of sea shells from Cape Cod.
Santo and Johnny’s greatest hits playing languidly
in the background, bright, light and airy
like the seashore on a cool summer’s day.
Great to see Mom again, in her new place in Florida,
great to catch up in person on all
the latest brouhaha about my brothers
and Aunt Alice, Aunt Jean and Uncle Bobby,
commiserate about our respective health issues
as we get on in years.
Great to reminisce about the good old days,
“Grandpa got drunk
every Friday after work, hilarious
watching him weaving his way down Purcell Street.”
She’s laughing, swaying side to side
like she’s working her way down
Purcell Street with Grandpa 60 years ago.
Yes, great to see Ma again,
but I wish my wife were here with me.
I see her picture in the photograph album,
20 years earlier at the dining room table
in her new black and white dress
looking so young and perfect,
so pretty and desirable, as always,
stirring such a longing in my heart.
Sad to admit, but I miss her, I always miss her
when I don’t see her every single day.
A flood, such a flood
of memories, pure and sweet
like maple syrup,
drowning my senses
like only memories of you can:
me bouncing that foolish ping pong ball
in your father’s basement
so he’d think we were
playing ping pong rather than kissing;
speaking to you for hours on the phone;
me carrying your books between classes;
telling other guys off
who had crossed the line.
And still after all these years,
I long always
to hear your voice,
watch your movements,
smell your scent lingering
in the cool night air,
hold your hand, taste your pure lips.
The little things about you,
your fingernails, your fingers and toes,
your hair, the shape
of the space you fill while you walk buries me
once again in memories
of younger days,
before I knew enough to fret
about things I have no control over
and shouldn’t care about anyway.
