| I feel numb |
| only the sound |
| of jet engines |
| high over Pittsburgh |
| I’m afraid |
| talking to myself |
| about us |
| into the void |
| at the Trieste Café in Frisco |
| you and I talked about our future |
| the quilt we slept under |
| at our first apartment on Strathmore Road |
| the drive south through Big Sur |
| the fluorescent waves |
| San Simeon |
| early morning |
| too much coffee |
| I walk aimlessly and watch the sun break |
| between Boston skyscrapers |
| I feel red currents swelling inside |
| the day ending |
| I remember the July morning |
| you wanted out |
| now all I wish to do is watch you |
| blow-drying your shortened hair |
| brushing your teeth |
| putting make-up on |
| as you keep pace with your early morning ritual |
| I remember you |
| framed by an easterly facing window |
| considering my Irishness |
| I apologize |
| I can still hear you saying |
| no one ever hit my heart so hard |
|
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| as I arrived from Bishop |
| we kissed hello |
| and spent the early morning reminiscing |
| over your blend of 4/10 French roast |
and 6/10 Arabian chocolate
|
| I gave you some of my poems to read |
| at the Sacramento Street park |
| and we joked into the night |
| I saw you as an ebony princess |
| who had disappeared from my life |
| a decade ago |
| too long a span of time for most loves to resume |
| |
| it has been seven days now |
| and a telephone call from you |
| brightens up the evening |
| it is late night |
| and I have been listening to the radio |
| thinking about your curried dishes |
| neutralized by spoons full with sour cream |
| I would put on the TV |
| but I wouldn’t see much |
| other than your body covered by my own |
| in a Point Reyes sand dune |
| the afternoon sun silver in the fog |
| my dog bear perplexed by our human act |
| |
| Philip Hackett |
