I wrote this poem, with exception of a few revisions, almost exactly a year ago.
Shifting Decks
Leaving is many parts:
meeting new people
and the feeling of time lost
and “Don’t hug me for more
than ten seconds” because I’ll cry
(and in front of all these people at that)
and then also thanks so
much for that for allowing me
to spill myself onto your shoulder.
Heavy July and food on the grill
during the evening affair and then hummingbirds
at my Mom’s house
but wait, that’s skipping parts
and steps ahead and askew, but that’s leaving.
How places can be very similar
and how one of my first poems was
“When the Hummingbird’s Hum
Ceases to Hum” about death
in a sort of Keatsian manner
and how funny that is.
It's deck conversations and realizing
what months
can be
and airing jeans
on the line and snapping photos of them to get
a laugh
and cats that seem immortal.
Slow days talking
about new friends to old friends
and discovering role models
and then discovering new ones.
Poems coming together on the road..
One of them was
title “I Was Almost Crying Forty Miles Ago
and Pulled Off the Road
to Write This
Especially for Earl and Phill”
body “I
love
you.”
but we all know
that’s not a poem.
Finding connections before
departures realizing missed
opportunities
it’s casting lines out and breathing
and camping overnight somewhere strange.
Feeling joy for buying baby food
for my little nephew
and on top of that
it’s “I’ll see you again”s
that are both sincere and not.
And a stick-shift in my hand
and great smells seen
but hidden by goodbye cigarettes,
even a walk in the woods I grew up in
and even showing my dad a poem.
And it’s going to keep
happening and it’s coming true
and yes, it could be.
And if nothing else,
it’s lots of hugs and taking chances.
Kissing vulnerability on the cheek,
backing away with a little wink.
