Chewing on a piece of grass

Walking down the road

Tell me, how long you gonna stay here, Joe?

Some people say this town don’t look good in snow

You don’t care, I know

So as I was saying, my brother Joe has been staying with me much of the time for the past five months. His local business concluded, he’s decamped and on his way home to his wife and child. They want him back you see, and make a more compelling case than I for his company. No, it’s just time to go home. As it should be. And once again, it’s just me and Tasha here in the condo, as it’s been for many years. The closet, drawers and shelves he used ring with clear, untangled emptiness.

I’ve not had a roomie since I finished college in ’86; didn’t want one. I wouldn’t have done it with anyone else. Don’t get me wrong, we had us some laughs. And I thought I was doing Joe a favor, letting him stay here rent free and all. I was wrong. There were – and still are – a lot of things in my life and heart needful of organization, prioritization, and polish. And some defects of my character needful of extraction from deep storage. These things my brother did for me. In gratitude for which, just this:

Vapor Trails

1.

Harvest moon tonight.

It will be cooler, and grow

cooler still as each night

falls away.

I live upstairs you know,

so standing by the silent

piano I can see the vapor

trails curved and stretched

among the clouds, bound

for San Francisco.

Even at night, the moon

will catch them, bring

them down for me.

The dog doesn’t mind

a contrail in the house;

the ghost of a journey

not our own.

She sleeps.

2.

I could make supper

and watch TV. Or stand

in the center of the room

and kill the lights, bend

the darkness around me

like a coat, an iron

maiden of my loneliness,

my unmusical, unhappy

self. The dog shifts

to a new plot of carpet;

fresh ground for her dreaming.

3.

It is all well. The crows

are down in orchards

to the east, their vespers

done. I made spaghetti

and watched the evening news.

We learn so little of each

other, even if God gives us

months. So you’ve returned

our coarse, untangled

distance, and my bathroom

drawers. The dog

wakes up, and looks around

for you.

Kyle Kimberlin

September 29, 2004