What is the stuff you see in me?
Veritas? Facsimile?
A busy room? An empty chair,
placed gently here or over there?
A fork? A glass? A book? A pen?
A first? A last? A “not again?”
A lilting song in distant keys?
A lonesome ship on stormy seas?
The reds? The yellows? Mostly blues?
Or peace and quiet? Mountain views?
Or puzzling moments dressed in doubt?
The complicated acting out?
The years, the days, the moments gone?
The sheets pulled back? The curtains drawn?
The listless waltz on endless nights?
The lowest lows? The highest heights?

My point, alas, is strange but not:
what we have is Camelot,
and while you pack for Timbuktu,
where is the love I see in you?

It is here, my beating heart:
in small, irregular moments,
and if this were a stage direction,
I can only breathe
while you — the wind —
travel from coast to coast,
off to greater adventures
without any
pompous change of tone.
you are a soft footstep in the dark,
and sleepily,
I roll over to one side,
hoping (deep down)
you’ll be the first thing I see
when the sun should rise
and should you return.

The coffee brews.
The blinds part.
And, perhaps, that’s enough.



Copyright © 2018 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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