*
*
Where
did he go,
that busy, silly man
with the terrible sense of humor?
Look into his eyes
dull, fogged windows.
*
Where did he go
the fount of Irish blarney,
trim of leg but lacking rhythm?
Look at him now, silent
wheelchair bound.
*
Where did he go,
my companion on Mexican highways,
the agreeable explorer?
Take his hands, warm and dry.
Hug the solid body of a person lost.
Miss him.
Love him.
Hold his truth and goodness
for him.
*
*
A youngish man, the music therapist
passes out maracas
to folks in wheelchairs, side by side,
many doze, a few eyes are open
*
He glides through the oldies,
Patsy Cline Crazy, Everly Brothers Dream,
These boots are made for walkin’
under the boardwalk
*
David, who rarely sits,
shuffles across the room,
smelling of shit—again—
Someone alerts the staff
*
Leaving on a jet plane
no one here will fly anywhere
Talking ‘bout my girl
No one here talks much
*
The music therapist always ends
with Amazing Grace, this being
a Catholic facility, those
who are here were once found,
but now are lost
*
*
skirts four inches above the knee
long straight hair
ribbed sweaters, knee socks
panty hose, penny loafers
*
khaki chinos, no jeans
Madras button-down shirts
pudding bowl Beatle haircuts
letter jackets football tennis
*
lunch on the lawn
horseplay and hugging
Vietnam, the Rolling Stones
Homecoming queen
*
Crushes and invisibility
(Never in a couple)
Clothes angst, hours doing hair,
Armloads of books
*
The golden ones
Know they belong
We others watch
From the shadows
*
*
“My mother she one hundred three year old
She drive all over. She so healthy. Why?
She dance. All the time, she dance.
You dance, you live long, long.”
*
His luminous dark skin glows with sweat,
He grins, slaps a high five, “good job, good job”
Calls out a rhythm, “gaa-ga-ga-ga, left”
*
The drum is so loud it sets off a warning on my watch.
Wide arm swings, fast foot stamps
Sweat rivulets down my temples
Heart pounds—can I keep up?
*
I fling my arms, copy his gestures, his steps
Exhausted, exhilarated, big movements,
Breathe hard, hands high, rolling shoulders.
*
Nothing outside the dance,
My arms, hands, catch my sight,
I’m startled that they aren’t brown,
The pale skin not mine.
*
Perhaps a former lifetime revealed itself,
Or a future one. The dance swallows me.
My diaphragm is the drum. I express eternity.
Tangled Magic 