I want to write a poem
as leathery-gentle, as nicotined,
as crimson-and-clover, as brass-in-pocket,
as you, friend, lounging on your couch
with your weary feet in my lap.
I want to write about you
small-talking with me
and with Pete who works the register
at Treviño’s Convenience,
all of us wanting to shoo away
that gaggle of St Mary’s teenagers.
I want to write about lottery tickets
where your lucky numbers are scratched off
with the grooved edge of a dime.
I cherish our midnight phone-calls
after friendly misunderstandings,
remember your TV tuned to Nick at Nite,
The Twilight Zone and Car 54.
I notice your calm forthrightness.
Your honesty that does not wound.
Your compassion that does not flinch.
I praise and magnify you
who comforted and helped the old folks
after the early-morning fire
in January's dark and bitter cold.
I sing of a pair of black cashmere gloves
that had belonged to your mom.
I give you glory whose crow’s-footed eyes,
whose face, creased with sixty winters,
speak of the Power Greater Than Myself.
Elbow me from the keyboard
and give me the poem that is you.
I will keep it in a tender place
for all my balladeering days;
I will rehearse its cadences
during white nights of black coffee.
I will love the poem that you’ve
made for me, the poem that is you.
Poetry by Uncle Meridian
Read 82 times
Written on 2023-05-22 at 07:01
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