By Christopher D. Lake
Date: 5 February 2001
We hardly ever fought
We hardly ever fought
or so I remember
and I know
I only made you cry once
on the phone
when you said you didn't know
what you believed
and I told you I was a Buddhist
some of the time
but most of the time
nothing.
The honest answer
but you cried and hung up
and I heard
despair in your voice
and didn't care.
Three years
more or less
reduced to moments
growing shorter
and less defined:
Bus rides to show me
your childhood home Upstate,
and,
before that,
Manhattan--
that frozen city--
minds warmed by new comradeship
and ideas
all fear
set aside
for talk of the need to create
and Andy Warhol's journals...
And the early spring--
hot way too soon--
you in my white t-shirt
on the bus
nipples erect
sweat beads on your forehead
breathless from something,
me knowing
it was all ending soon
but having only half-truths
and notebooks of poetry
that didn't rhyme.
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