A Model Year (Part 2 of 5)

A way to make the time pass is as good as any
validation, any idea of happiness, opening

a new book, finding solace in preparing dinner.
Moving to L.A. or Toronto has never been

the answer. The home we built made sense
if only for a brief time. The dream in which I'm falling

& startle myself awake has always been here.
I couldn't watch the images on tv, bodies

hurtling through space. Push inside yourself.
Paint the living room orange.

Buy new curtains to block out the sun. When
you didn't have to go to work, you slept,

filled whole days with sleep. Waking to eat,
smoke a cigarette, have a drink. It's easy to fall

for a dream. Easy to pretend the flowers are blooming
specifically for you, or the walk home a yellow brick road.

Attempt to make sense of wanting, make sense
of the empty seat across the table.

* * *

Moving has never been the answer but always
an understandable response to the empty seat

across the table. Threads come loose & the button
needs to be re-sewn. Time to trade sweaters

for short sleeves. The sun on the skin acting
as an agent of love to keep you golden & warm.

To hold you in memory golden & warm.
An afternoon nap in the park. The body continues

to grow, moves forward, guarded.
Memory like loose thread unravels, re-builds,

constructs a new sequence of events.
Remembered faces that were never there, never

a part of this story. Forgive me if I repeat,
I don't know where else to go.

No new words to explain my appearance here today.
No new words for today & waking & sleeping.

I've attempted to re-trace my steps,
looked the last place I was.