whistling

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I never should have moved

away.  Instead, I might

have kept the

quail safe on the ranch and

known there’s only

one path.  And once

its gone, any

scheming just brings more

bad dreams.  Should have sat

every night, hand on the

brandy alexander,

absorbed by the dark

until we cannot tell

each from the other.

And then, when its time to go,

it is really a relief

like they say, a

blessing instead of regret

that there will never

be anything new again.  I should

have listened to

the rumbling, like

rockets, shuddering the deck,

from engines

testing the future.

Given my self up

like a hostage

held by momentum,

looking at

the valley lights

while you put the dinner,

that I hardly ever ate,

on the plate.

It would have made you

love me, for

being there the

night before

your christmas,

letting the kids go away,

so they feel there’s more

than the static unexplained

translucence of living

like we do, without change,

without complaint.

I don’t know what would

happen once you

were gone

as now I know

that would have been.

Living in

an inherited house, never

making all the mistakes that

were made.

Though without

any idea what would stop

them, without the kind of

whistling threats

like the

cougar and bobcats

warned away by

rifle shots above

their heads.

Reviews

[. serah .]

-- "the static unexplained translucence of living like we do, without change, without complaint" is a thought that's going to stay with me for a long time... i'll wonder interminably about whether or not one should complain... and make changes... or rather... whether it's possible to...

-- beautiful poetry... it's poignant... and one can feel the journey of the narrator... and recall similar scenes from one's own life...