he dragged his feet
her veil scared him
she was not smiling

she bent over
the ******* box
he could not see
what was inside

her lips moved
but he did not hear her
he heard the big people whispering,
talking softly

like they usually did
when they were not singing
in this place, this room
with high ceilings, colored windows
and benches he thought
they called pews

he couldn't see him,
his daddy, though many
said he was there

he wondered what
was in the black box
and when his mother began
to walk away, he saw her hand print
on the surface, but no thumb

he dragged his feet again
she pulled his hand harder
he wiggled free and went back
to the box

Uncle Roy picked him up
to carry him down the aisle; when he did
he thought he saw his daddy asleep
in the box

and his mother's hand print
was still there, but now missing
*******

he knew that number
two--he looked back a final time
and saw other big people at the box,
walking, looking, perhaps being quiet
to not wake Daddy

white tulips
in moonlight, though silver
this night

they are near,
near, yet I cannot
touch them

nor catch their coy scent
but I smell nothing, hear
nothing

and, and this vision
of a forgiving bulb,
is fading

behind it,
in its shivering shadow
I see him

what is left of his face
what grace there must be
in this place

where the man I killed
the moment he killed me
and I, are now together

separated only by
silent soil, and a merciful
white blossom

dirt clods, actually
there were few stones
in the creek that separated
their apartments from ours

a creek, and income gap even we,
barely double digits old, could see
as clearly as the stream
between our worlds

in our battles, I missed
on purpose, as did most
of the Manor marines--never
did a clod hit me

our general, Rex, connected often
inviting obscenities from our opponents
but never did they cross the creek

if they had, it would have been
for naught, for we had won the war
before the skirmishes began

our pool, tennis courts, and club
were the arsenals that gave us the edge
and the Stuart Manor soldiers knew this
but chunked the dirt valiantly
all the same

your Colorado village was freezing,
even the eve of May

the bus dropped me there
you weren't waiting

I toted my duffel bag, now turned sixty,
to your place

you didn't answer for an hour; when you did,
it was not sleep in your eyes

we didn't fight--it was too cold in your apartment
for heated arguments

you didn't bother to say you were busy, or forgot
your father's only son had agreed to this visit

you had only stale bread, stingy swirls of peanut butter
in a cold jar

you left with a promise to get food,
and my last seven dollars

I waited for you until dusk, then dragged my bag
to a locked church

I put an extra ancient sweater under my coat, leaned
against the chapel's small west wall

I watched the sky turn from mauve to black,
until I fell asleep

and dreamed of a time I carried you on my shoulders,
under a warm sun

I hoped to become an eagle
soaring above amber waves of grain
seeking perch in rarefied air

a red-tailed hawk,
or even a garden warbler
would have sufficed

instead I metamorphosed
into a mosquito and found myself
skulking on a fine lady's arm

I could only hope
she wouldn't swat me
before I drank my red full
and took flight into dusk

or returned
to my pitiable simian self,
lice laced and  homeless, hunkering
in a cold corner, wishing
I could fly

at the market
in front of me, he was buying wine
and breath mints for later

he was short twenty cents
on his hopeful purchase; I gave him a quarter
he didn't say thanks

for later
when he would tap on the apartment door
and she would answer, eager

would she let him
all the way in, would he stay
the night?

I hope
the two bits I gave him
changed something for
mints may matter

a dad, two kids  
the latter running for the shade and shelter
of the picnic table--dad strolling behind,
with pizza and crazy bread  

one family of a dozen there
in 75 degree Texas sunshine  
mid winter, as russet leaves
and calendar attest        

now I recall my only picnic
a half century past, where I discovered
peanut butter could be made magical  
with marshmallow cream  

from this same walking
and waking dream, I see a star
hanging  between two oaks, and a sea  
of hip hippies dancing, rocking to
mystic chants of their own device  

for the music died
long ago, electric and eternal
though we thought it was  

today, in a sun drenched park,
it is calm breeze I hear, the sibilant sizzling songs
of my past are long lost in space, but the wickedly wonderful
white goop on that sandwich, I yet taste
with transcendent  joy