Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Headline Poem 11/4/14 -- What I gather

What I gather 

The clock has changed involuntarily, but it's making good use of things. 
I remember learning how to tell time in an English hotel room, 
looking out over cobble stone streets. 

  I never understood quarter of. 
  But now I do. 

When you moved in, 
my town, whose path to the ocean, 
contained a certain truth, 
moved too. 
My sand became dirt   and    mud   and manure and grime. 
    
 I shoveled it because someone      had   to. 

You changed me. You changed you. 
Flannel shirts covered your misery, and softball mitts caught 
what you missed, but then... 

     I fell in love and you couldn't      handle it. 

So you left before I said I do. 
You jumped, pirate-style with a patch over both eyes. 
     
     Were you scared? 
     Were you surprised? 

Or   did   you always know you'd leave if we started to see the real you? 

I've promised myself, 
I will not hate you. 
I released you a long time ago. 
I allow you to be 
the one who gave me 
Long Island and her white, blanketing snow. 
I allow you to be the one 
who let us accompany you to Houston
to watch your idol fall. 

What I gather from our encounters is 
that tin cans and thumbs 
on desolate roads 
are for travelers who are running 
and 
for those who   
     long to bury sorrows they     never      meant to plant. 

But the road is also full of people      who pack suitcases 
without a    plan. 
Dreamers without dreams,
they go... 
I watched you
and know 
that 
even though you'll miss 
what you'll never know,
I accept that 
sometimes 
disappearing 
is the 
best gift.