Sparkled in the Streetlight

As my forehead lags in my hand

And my mouth parts with a breath

My eyes close

To the sound of the piano.

And my pen falls to the floor.

The way it was presented to me

At least the way it seemed that day

The stuff of dreams

Was on the air like pipe smoke

In the carpet like coffee stains.

She suggested we get away

So we walked out into the rain

There are things I can’t shake

I told her

Kicking down leaf piles

In the gutter.

The rain fell like mist

Coating her face till it sparkled in the streetlight.

Things I just can’t shake.

I can’t help laughing when the clouds are fantastic

Like mountains

In a fever dream.

In the house

In my head

In the dark

I war with the 29 year old that lives and the five year old

That has refused to die.

Because I keep feeding him fantastic things

And he has grown strong

Yet stayed young.

What does it mean to be a man

With a child caught up inside?

I suppose it means that I have a great task

Of nurturing

To do.

But in the covers alone

Listening to the pummel of rain

And of piano keys

I wonder:

“Could I be made to nurture more than only me?

I remember our walk in the rain

And our talk for half an hour

And handing her a towel to dry her shining face

And I wonder.

About relativity

And singularities

And gravity wells

And event horizons

And the proportions of an hour imposed upon an eternity

How it can make that hour swell

And press at the nearly bursting seams

Of time

And of the lonely space between our houses.”