, ,

Passage Ways

In part of my heart is a hole
called regret. Nostalgic rhythms
remind me, take me back to 1984
when all was hope and song…

I regret not telling her I liked her,
wanted to spend time with her.

Third grade was hoping I’d see her,
sad when Summer came and I
had not said a thing.

Hope died completely by ’85,
when Ryan and I stole into
our parents’ cabinet and killed
ourselves slowly. If at first
you don’t succeed, try and try
to die over and over again—then
watch friends actually pass away,
be grateful that although you
missed the consummation of Spring,
you at least saw it dawn—

I shall be telling this with a sigh,
sometime like Frost, between
injury, peace and rhyme—at
least once before bed YELL it out!!

God, at least amends are there
to be made, reaching back with
band-aids and lemonades, quenching
the nostalgic curse of broken
dancefloor dreams, death, the
cycle led by devils of feeling, hiding,
dishonesty and beer.

Homeless I walk away, a shirt on
my back awaiting the honest ask.

The way back is there; Poverty
a friend when it teaches us what we
need, don’t, who’s our real friend,
and what Jesus meant when he
spoke of family being those
who do God’s will.

Regret: part of my heart, the dancefloor
old but for hot memory. I choose
a different path today, and what’s

I bring roadblocks and signs to
warn youth away from my

Drop the act, wear a helmet
like the law says, and be a nice