Earliest draft August 2018. Revised March 2019.
I won't sing a winsome ballad,
As my strings are all unstrung;
I'll forsake my merry mischief:
You were taken far too young.
I won't swim the English Channel;
I won't climb McKinley's peak ---
Since you died, my hopes are rubble:
I've been crying for a week.
I won't hoist a glass of Guinness;
I'll abstain from Maker's Mark;
I'll put down the gin martini
(No more cocktails after dark).
How I've searched for you in churches!
But despite my anguished prayer,
All I see are sculpted angels:
I can't find you anywhere.
Cherished soul, you've gone to heaven,
Leaving earth a very hell:
I won't see you in September;
When we'll meet, I just can't tell.
Now I stumble through a planet
Where the evidence of you
Has contracted to the memories
In my heart so bruised and blue.
You were sunlight, you were fire,
You were Holy Eucharist:
You were Irish Catholic Boston;
Yours, the blush-red cheek I kissed.
From that bright fall day I met you,
You were always there for me!
Such a comfort in my troubles ---
But this! no one could foresee.
In the spring, you had a backache,
Then they told you what it was,
And it stole you in the summer:
I ask why; there's no because.
I can't rouse you from your coffin;
I can't raise you from the dust:
I can't get your stopped pulse beating;
I protest because I must.
Can't you call me up or text me,
Speak some solace through the phone?
I ride crowded Cambridge buses,
But I'm horribly alone.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 194 times
Written on 2019-03-12 at 01:25
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