Your beard of salt and pepper
outlined a smooth mine of sorrow
eyes melting in all directions
like those of an impatient child,
shinny surfaces
pillows full and puffed into place,
each corner of your room
was one long eulogy on loneliness
and a stricken man.
Those hands of a priest,
servants of God
searched and recovered mine
binding them to the other man beside you,
the other life you live
when God’s not looking.
Our union was small and momentary
peanut butter cookies and milk
overlooking the park
an afternoon rain on the greenest grass
I have ever seen.
Standing in Sibley’s
concentrating on the right wine
when you stopped me
seven years later
and my life was unraveling
exposed like a reel of film.
Only you would notice
my name billed under readings
in the tiny print
of the New York Times,
the photo from my college ID
you still carried it in your wallet,
and the birthday card you sent
to my home for my father to open,
and ask, who is Father Poupoire
and what does he want with you?
My answer, eyes melting in all directions,
I don’t know,
nothing it seems.
